


Play On

by LateStarter58



Series: Everlasting Song: the Tom and Rosie story [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Books, Cancer, F/M, Heartbreak, Miscarriage, Singing, Unrequited Love, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 15:25:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 59,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16977147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Play on! Keep me dancing in the air... no one else, they can compare to the harmony of our sweet rapture...Rosie loves Tom, but to him, she's just a good friend. So she reads poetry by day and sings out her pain on stage by night. And that works, really well, until the night he notices...





	1. Only Love Can Hurt Like This

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I wrote in 2014, and it is set in that time. It was inspired by the singing and songs of Paloma Faith, Adele and the old 80s a cappella band, The Flying Pickets. I had a vision of a singer, and suddenly I felt her pain, and knew what was causing it. I hope you like it.

**_Said I wouldn’t care if you walked away_ **

**_But every time you’re there I’m begging you to stay_ **

**_And when you come close_ **

**_I just tremble_ **

**_And every time_ **

**_Every time you go_ **

**_It’s like a knife that cuts right to my soul_ **

The voices rose up through her body, Jimmy’s deep bass thrumming, almost vibrating in her bones. She whistled the melody, eyes closed as the sound of the others singing the rhythmic accompaniment enveloped her. Her hips swayed; her head rolled on her neck and shoulders as she lost herself in the song.The introduction finished and she began to sing, her voice rich and sexy, the words speaking to her heart.               

_Fortunately, you have got someone who relies on you_

_We started out as friends_

_But the thought of you just caves me in_

As always when she sang any love song, she thought of him.               

_The symptoms are so deep, it is much too late to turn away_

_We started out as friends…_

For more than ten years, his had been the face she saw behind her closed lids, emotions flowing from her soul into her voice, moving the audience. Performing, she allowed it all to show: the love; the pain; _the_ _want._ Tears welled in her closed eyes and she held them captive as the chorus began:               

_Sign your name across my heart_

_I want you to be my baby…_

His name was already there, of course, deeply etched – but not with his consent, certainly not with his knowledge. She had never said a word.               

_Time of course will bring disappointment in so many things_

_It seems to be the way_

_When your gambling cards on love you play_

_I’d rather be in hell with you baby than in cool heaven_

_It seems to be the way…_

Still swaying with the music, arms lifting and lowering, reaching out and pulling the imaginary him in, she allowed herself to drift into the melody. The middle eight came and went, then they reached the part that hurt the most:               

_All alone with you makes the butterflies in me arise_

_Slowly we make love_

_And the earth rotates to our dictates_

_Slowly we make love…_

Just like every other time, she felt that stab to her heart.

_That had never happened. Never would._

Her breaking, sensual voice climbed in a cadenza and the song came to its climax, the whole group singing; their combined voices filling the small space with a wall of sound as she improvised the closing bars. The music soothed the hurt the words had caused, easing the painful memories that never quite healed; the joy of singing with her friends, of entertaining others acting as a balm for her deep wounds.Finally opening her eyes to acknowledge the rapturous applause she saw a face at the rear of the tiny crowded room. He was looking at her intently. A moment’s pause, and then he dazzled her with a smile, lifting his hands to show he was joining the acclaim. Rosie’s breath caught in her throat. How would she get through the rest of her solos if Tom was actually there?

_It was one of those ridiculous English August days, when it rained so hard it soaked your trouser-cuffs, but now the sun was out. Steam was rising from the streets and the people hurrying along them. Rosie had only remembered ten minutes ago that they had a prospective flat-mate coming that evening, so she had to cut short her re-shelving and bid Arthur a hasty goodbye. The place was clean enough, but Jimmy had invited a few friends over the night before and there was a mess in the sitting room and dishes piled high in the sink. She doubted he would have finished work early to come home and deal with it. It was no good telling an applicant that you expect them to keep the shared space clean and tidy if they’re looking at what looks like the aftermath of a Roman orgy._ _Climbing Crouch End Hill, Rosie thanked the gods again that they had been able to find a place so near to the shop where she worked. Jimmy had a longish commute, but it could have been worse, and there was no way they could have afforded anything nearer to Oxford Street than where they were. It was leafy, pleasant and there were plenty of good shops, pubs and restaurants nearby. The only snag was they had to keep finding a new person to share the bills every so often; the two of them did not earn enough between them to pay the ground-floor flat’s rent; not AND eat, anyway. She turned the corner onto their street, checking her watch; it was only a quarter to six. The guy was coming at seven, so she had time to clear up. Rosie shifted her bag onto her other shoulder. It was heavy, because she had popped into Waitrose to get a nice bottle just in case they wanted to seal the deal tonight. She and Jimmy were very well in tune with each other; if this person was right for them, they probably wouldn’t even need to discuss it. She was also carrying several books from the shop. Arthur was very indulgent of her, often letting her take volumes home to read. It was like having an exclusive, high-class lending library almost entirely to herself._

_Half-an-hour later, Rosie was putting the cleaning things away under the sink. She had disposed of the pizza boxes and beer bottles from the night before, vacuumed the carpets and plumped the cushions. She had even remembered to check the vacant bedroom for junk or forgotten coats from a previous party, but it was all clear. She had just settled herself on their ugly but comfortable sofa when Jimmy breezed in, at least thirty minutes earlier than usual._

_‘Oh girl! You’ve done it! I sneaked out early specially!’_

_‘Not to worry, Jimbo. You can owe me. Tea?’_

_‘Oh I’d ADORE one, darling. My mouth is like the bottom of a budgie’s cage.’_ _He flopped down next to her just as she was getting up to fetch his tea._ _‘I swear if I have to give any more advice to women who then stroll off and buy stuff from the next counter I think I’ll scream! Surely they know we are an expensive brand, for fuck’s sake?’_

_Rosie returned with the brew. She sat down next to her friend, nodding silently. This was not the first time she had listened to this particular rant. Jimmy worked as a beauty consultant in John Lewis, for an expensive American cosmetics company. He loved the job and enjoyed making people over. Unfortunately, he had sales targets to meet, and he was always extra testy when the end of the month was looming._

_‘Are we all ready for the new drama queen, what’s his name?’_

_Rosie reached for the email print-out. ‘Tom Hiddleston. Yes, I think so. And don’t get your hopes up, just because he’s starting at RADA; he might be straight.’_

_Jimmy snorted._

_If this guy wanted the room and they agreed, he would be their third RADA-student flat-mate. It started when they first found this place and Jimmy’s friend Patrick had agreed to share with them. They made an odd combination at face-value: a straight female European Studies student and a gay Philosopher, both in their final undergrad year at UCL sharing with a flamboyant aspiring actor (‘I’m going to be the next Simon Callow, darlings!’) in his last year at RADA. He had moved on to pastures new after twelve months, and they had enjoyed the experience so much they advertised on the RADA noticeboard for a replacement. William had been a very different character but a delight nonetheless. He wanted to direct and spent hours poring over scripts and screenplays and rarely made much noise, which was just as well because Jimmy never shut up._

_Rosie loved Jimmy like a brother. They had met in the Student Union Bar at UCL in their first term. Rosie had been alone, nursing a coffee and trying to read a book when her attention was caught by raised voices across the room. Two mouthy types were arguing about politics, and it wasn’t the most intellectual of exchanges; it seemed to consist mainly of aspersions being cast as to the parentage of the party leaders in question. Rolling her eyes, Rosie caught the gaze of a beautiful waif-like young man with blue hair a few tables over. He nodded his head towards the noise and rolled his own eyes, making them both snort with laughter._

_That might have been the extent of their acquaintance if Rosie hadn’t given in to her classmate’s pleadings and gone along to the University Choral Society meeting the following week. She was a keen singer but not much of a joiner, but when she spotted her pal from the bar lining up with the bass-baritones she thought it might just be worth making an exception. It turned out to be not only the beginning of a warm and deep friendship but also of an enduring musical relationship._

_Rosie loved to sing. From the age of four she had performed in pantomimes and choirs, singing solos and taking part in concerts all over the town where she grew up and the surrounding county. She had wanted to study music seriously, but had reluctantly admitted defeat when she accepted her inability to play an instrument to any standard beyond vaguely competent. She kept up her singing lessons until she left for university, and was thrilled when Jimmy and a few others from the choir suggested they form an a cappella group. They were a mixed bunch: Rosie and classmate Kate were the only women members at first; Jimmy, Dale and Ed were all gay; Hugh and Paul were straight guys. As they sang covers and were a mix of races too, they decided to call themselves ‘The Thieving Magpies’._

_The doorbell rang on the dot of seven. That was a good omen; if he was a good time keeper he might be reliable in other areas. Rosie opened the door to see a tall, gangly, curly-haired blond young man with the face of an angel. He strode in and within minutes the three of them were chatting and laughing like old friends. An hour later they had agreed terms and were sharing that bottle of Merlot Rosie had bought. Two weeks later he moved into their empty spare room and Rosie’s slow descent into hell began._

Rosie turned around so she could wipe her eyes quickly. She would have liked a few moments to gather herself but the routine was to go straight into the next number, and it could not have been worse: _Wonderful World._ She caught Jimmy’s eye and he smiled sympathetically. He had to have seen Tom as well because he mouthed ‘You OK?’ to her and she nodded unconvincingly. Then Hugh raised his hand and the next number began. She tightened her stomach and prepared to sing about how perfect everything would be if a certain someone loved her.               

_But I do know that I love you_

_And I know that if you loved me too_

_What a wonderful world this would be_

Somehow, she got through it, mainly by not looking at the back of the room. Her mind swam with a hundred questions. How had he even known where they were? It wasn’t a big venue, and there wasn’t much publicity. The back room of _The White Horse –_ known as _the Hind Quarters -_ frequently hosted music nights, and _The Thieving Magpies_ were regulars there. Why had he come? She hadn’t seen him for months, not since February; she hadn’t heard from him more than twice since then. What did he want? What business had he just showing up like that?Rosie tried to calm herself down. The next few songs were other band-members’ solos so she was able to relax a little but not to switch off. Even in a largish _a cappella_ group there is nowhere to hide. She focussed on the job in hand and let the songs carry her along. They aced _Bob Marley, Nirvana, Springsteen_ and _Dylan_ to much applause but all Rosie could see in her mind’s eye was the run of five love songs she would be leading at the end of the set. Those were hard enough for her to sing on a good day; she wasn’t sure if she would be able to finish with the man she had loved for ten years -without telling him - in the room listening.


	2. Do You Want the Truth or Something Beautiful?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The court of conscience came before me  
> Presented me with a heavenly angel  
> He took my hand and asked me truths aside  
> To his questions I replied  
> Do you want the truth or something beautiful?  
> Just close your eyes and make believe  
> Do you want the truth or something beautiful?  
> I am happy to deceive  
> Sacred lies and telling tales  
> I can be who you want me to be  
> But do you want me?

Tom stood quietly at the back of the small, crowded room. It was filled with the smell of sweaty bodies and damp fabric; it was raining outside and moisture was rising from jeans and sweaters as the audience crammed into the warm space. He made sure he kept a low profile. He had come to see his friends perform and they were as good as he remembered. Rosie looked amazing, her generous curves shown to perfection by the burgundy knitted dress she was wearing. And that song: he knew she was a fantastic singer but the emotion in her performance! There was something in her face when she saw him that was unsettling. There was surprise, of course; he hadn’t told her or Jimmy he was coming, but it was more than that, he was sure.

The band was singing Springsteen’s _Factory_ now. Along with _Smells Like Teen Spirit,_ it was one of their show-stoppers, and they had been performing it for as long as Tom had known them. He thought back fondly to evenings sitting in their shared living-room, him playing the guitar while Jimmy acted as bass and drums as Rosie sang. She sang a lot of happy songs in those days, and they had such fun both there and in the garden on warm nights, candles flickering in jam jars on the steps to the scruffy patch of grass that passed for a lawn, singing, talking and dancing. The set moved on to Dylan’s _Masters of War_ and Tom watched Rosie as she stood stiff and straight as they all did, fists clenched to convey the righteous anger of the words. But something looked wrong with her; out of joint. She loved singing; it was one of the things that drew him to her. So why did she look so tense and anxious tonight?

_Even at the tender age of twenty-two, Tom wasn’t so naïve that he couldn’t see that within a couple of weeks of him moving into the flat Jimmy had developed a massive crush on him. It was a little awkward, but he could also see that his flat-mate was embarrassed and had no intention of propositioning him. It wasn’t the first time it had happened to him; you don’t go to Eton without meeting that particular aspect of human life. And he would have hated to move out. The flat was comfortable, convenient for the buses and Tube and Rosie and Jimmy were fantastic company._

_Rosie had spent a few evenings hugging Jimmy while he wept silently on the sofa, knowing they could all ride this little storm out. He had been much the same with William. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t sympathise; Tom was gorgeous. Pretty blond curls, a lithe physique he maintained with running and daily yoga and a lovely face. His smile could make the birds fly down from the trees, and he had the most delicious voice. But it was the inner man Rosie was most attracted to. She could talk about literally anything with him. If he didn’t already know about it, he was always interested. They stayed up late discussing his areas of expertise – Classics, Shakespeare – or hers – French literature, European history – and there was never a hint of boredom on either side._

_He was also a model sub-tenant. If he used a plate or a mug he washed it up immediately, he never left a mess in the shared spaces and on the rare occasions Rosie went into his room it was neat and tidy. His sunny and thoughtful nature made him a joy to have around, especially in contrast to Jimmy’s loveable but more volatile personality. Rosie enjoyed helping him learn his lines, mocking the extreme swearing that flowed unabated when he forgot or muddled his words. His love of music was a bonus. He was an attentive audience when she and Jimmy were arranging songs for The Thieving Magpies, and fun to jam with; he was good guitarist. He even suggested numbers they might sing in the band and came along to gigs, leading the applause._

_Performing had become a lucrative and enjoyable side-line for Rosie, Jimmy and the others. She was starting her PhD and while working in the bookshop wasn’t a low-paid job, it wasn’t exactly an executive position either. And Jimmy didn’t earn a fortune, so every little extra was welcome. The band was earning a reputation locally, and offers of dates had begun to come in from further afield, even outside London. Hugh was the ad-hoc manager and he had started to talk about formalising things as their earnings increased. Tom helped them with their act, suggesting that they rearrange themselves on stage for each number so as to help tell the story of the song, adding humour where appropriate. Some of the guys were sceptical at first, but it worked so well that they incorporated it into all their shows from then on._

_Rosie knew she was in trouble after the first Christmas of Tom’s time in the flat. He was due back from his family home one evening and she found herself standing at the window waiting, her heart pounding with excitement. The sudden realisation that she was desperate to see him again brought her up short. He was seven years younger than her and clearly destined for a glittering career in the theatre. He was gorgeous, she was not. She was a fool if she thought he would or could ever be more than a friend. But it was already too late._

Jimmy took the chance to squeeze Rosie’s arm as they passed at the end of the Dylan number. He could see she was in trouble, and he knew why. They rarely talked about it, but he had been aware that she loved Tom from the start, probably for longer than she had. He wanted her to know that he was there for her, because the next few songs were going to be an ordeal. He needed to concentrate; he and Hugh comprised the rhythm section and the bass, so the band all relied on them. They didn’t start the next song though: that was Rosie, Kate and the other female member, Jules. They started to sing the opening riff of _Only You_ and he watched the tension in Rosie’s shoulders gradually loosen. She was losing herself in the moment. It was the best they could hope for.

Tom finished his beer but didn’t want to leave to get another. Rosie had led the last song and she stayed centre stage as the opening of a track he half-recognised began. She started to sing and he knew it: Paloma Faith. As she reached the line ‘ _Presented me with a heavenly angel’_ he noticed her eyes flick in his direction and something clutched at his heart.

**_He stood as tall as redwood trees_ **

**_Drank tea from a seamstress’ thimble_ **

**_I didn’t want to speak the honest truth_ **

**_So I spit out lies that aim to soothe_ **

There was a catch in her voice and she opened her eyes and looked directly at him for more than a split second for the first time. Tom’s arms and legs went numb.

_There were many evenings when the three of them shared a bottle of cheap supermarket vino and watched videos all night. Sometimes one or all of them would fall asleep, squashed in a friendly heap on the lumpy sofa and more than once Tom had woken up with Rosie in his arms. Usually he slipped away and out of the room as quietly as he could and got into his bed. He never suspected she was awake. The first time it had happened she had kept still, hardly daring to breathe. Savouring the feel of his breath brushing her cheek, the weight of his arm on hers, the feel of his leg, she stored the memories in her most precious hiding- place. Once or twice she was the one who dropped off first, coming round to feel his heart beating steadily against her ear, the smell of him enveloping her._

_She felt it was wrong, as if she was lying to him by hiding her true feelings. But she was afraid that to do so would be to drive him away. Better to have him as a friend than not at all; the thought of losing him completely was unbearable. So she smiled and laughed and hid her heart. Jimmy wasn’t fooled, of course. He saw the way she looked at Tom when she thought nobody was watching. But he couldn’t offer her more than his sympathetic support, once she had begged him to keep his knowledge to himself. Against his better judgement, he agreed. Tom seemed blissfully unaware of her agony, breezing in and out in lycra and denim or wandering around the flat in just a towel, forcing Rosie into her bedroom to scream into her pillow or to the gym to pound her frustration out on the treadmill. And so twenty months of daily torture for Rosie played out. Tom: always within reach and yet forever unattainable._

The words came out so softly it wasn’t even a whisper.

‘Oh shit.’

Nobody heard him above the sound of Rosie and her friends, but Jimmy saw it on his lips. ‘At last,’ he thought.

Probably too late, Rosie saw Tom’s demeanour change and guessed he had finally discovered her secret, so carefully nurtured over the years. She had been so clever at hiding it, playing the platonic friendship game so well. Now the music and the shock of seeing him had conspired to lay it open. The last of her solos, the last ‘official’ song of their set was about to start. If she could just get through it then she could slip away via the back door after the encores and not have to face him.

**O _nly love, only love can hurt like this…_**

**_But it’s the sweetest pain_ **

**_Burning hot through my veins_ **

**_Love is torture makes me more sure_ **

**_Only love can hurt like this_ **

She forced herself to look for him one more time, scanning the faces against the back wall. Her eyes found him, pain and love searing through them as they filled with tears; she had no control now. Her cheeks were wet and yet she kept singing; her hips kept swaying; her arms kept swinging. Somehow she carried on, as if the agony of knowing it was all over was enough. He knew, and that would be the end of it.

Not of her love, but of their friendship.

 

 


	3. The Tracks of My Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So take a good look at my face  
> You’ll see my smile looks out of place  
> If you look closer it’s easy to trace  
> The tracks of my tears

Rosie wanted to run, but she was still wearing her stage heels and it was raining hard so she couldn’t take them off. The air was cold and the raindrops pricked at her face like a thousand tiny needles. She welcomed it. Anything to distract from the crushing, sickening pain she was in.

_He knew._

_And because he knew, it was over._

Her throat was agony as she fought against the sobs that were trying to break out. She batted blindly at the crossing button and barely registered the beeping, crossing anyway. The streetlights glittered orange in the rain, sparkling onto the wet pavements like heralds of the festivities soon to come, mocking her misery. Desperate for the safety of the flat and her bed, she hurried on, up the hill, ploughing heedlessly through mounds of damp dead leaves, ignoring the pain in her feet and back. Everything was being drowned out by the agony in her heart.

In _The White Horse_ Tom stood still and silent in his place against the back wall for several minutes after the rest of the audience had begun to drift back into main bars. He was trying to reconcile what had happened with his memories of Rosie and their times together. Had he really been _that_ blind? How long had she felt like this? He turned his head as he heard voices coming from the doorway the band had disappeared through at the end of the show. He straightened up and waited patiently for Rosie to come out. He needed to talk to her.

A few of _The Thieving Magpies_ who knew him greeted him warmly on their way past. Time went on and Tom began to wonder where Rosie and Jimmy were hiding. Then Jimmy appeared, his face solemn, and walked straight over to where Tom was waiting - somewhat less patiently now than fifteen minutes earlier.

‘Jim…’

‘She’s gone home, Tom. She left right after the last number.’ Jimmy looked at his friend sadly. ‘She’s in a really bad way. Best leave her alone to lick her wounds.’

‘I can’t, Jimmy.’ Tom raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Why didn’t she say anything? Christ, I feel so bloody stupid!’

Jimmy reached out and put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. She hid it from everyone. I only knew because she let her guard down a few times.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘She made me promise not to.’ Tom’s legs seemed to go from under him and he slid down the wall into a seated position. Jimmy went with him and they sat, knees bent, looking across the now-empty room at the deserted stage. ‘She wouldn’t talk to me about it much either, but I knew anyway.’

‘How long?’ Tom’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

Jimmy sighed deeply. ‘Ten years? Something like that. Since the time you were living in the flat, anyway.’

This news seemed to galvanise Tom. Abruptly he stood up. ‘Fuck… I have to talk to her. Now.’

‘I wouldn’t…’ Jimmy shouted at his back, but he was gone.

 

_The calendar on the kitchen wall was never a favourite. Her mum had given it to her; scenes of the Essex countryside. As if she wanted to be reminded of those. But it functioned as a repository for all the important household dates and there it was in black-and-white: June 24th was the day Tom would be moving out. Only three weeks to go now. Looking at it, mindlessly holding the glass she was supposed to be putting away, Rosie felt her spirits ebbing. Life was painful with him around, but how much worse would it be without him? Maybe it would be better, she mused. Maybe this stupid, pointless feeling of… was it love, or just a silly crush, an infatuation? Maybe that would wear off, once the object of her desire was no longer there._

_She didn’t really believe that, but it was all she had to cling on to, that faint hope that this misery would end. Rosie was in a sort of limbo, that second year of Tom’s tenancy. Unable to get anywhere with her PhD, she had thrown herself into performing, using it as an outlet. What she could never say to him she expressed onstage; all the yearning and sadness came out of her body and she would leave the venue at the end of the night feeling drained but content. But it never lasted. She extended their repertoire, the number of her solos gradually increasing until a couple of sequences of love songs became a standard feature in their sets. Audiences responded to the sincerity of her delivery, and only Jimmy knew at what cost the emotion she put into the songs had been wrought._

_Her day job stepped up a gear too. They opened an online business which she managed, and as Arthur’s health faltered, she found herself effectively running the shop too. With that and The Thieving Magpies taking up so much time, her PhD plans were shelved. But she still had time for Tom. He had been so excited when he told them he had got a job with ‘Cheek By Jowl’._

_‘We’ll be going all over Europe with Shakespeare! How perfect is that?’_

_She was so happy for him; he was doing what he wanted to do: living his dream. And he deserved it. She had seen his work; the TV stuff and a couple of the RADA productions for which he had got her and Jimmy tickets. He was good; really, **really** good. She had watched entranced as he appeared to be another person on the stage. There were always elements of ‘Tom’ but he seemed to be able – chameleon-like – to adapt and take on the appearance and the personality of someone else. But when she looked at him, at the flat or as he worked, she saw firstly the man she loved._

_His eyes, sparkling with enthusiasm when he spoke about a passion or an exciting prospect; his beautiful face, so expressive; his silly, fluffy hair; his lovely body, so long and lean and athletic; the never-ending legs; his laugh, a joy to behold as his entire body joined in, back arching and arms flailing; his quick wit and exploring mind. This last was what she loved the most, and what she would miss above all. He had been promising that he would keep in touch, and no doubt he would. But there would be no more late-night discussions about Voltaire or Jean Genet; no more heated arguments about Sophocles or the significance of Greek drama in European culture. Those were the things that had made her love him. Everything else was just a bonus._

Fumbling for her keys in the dark outside her door, Rosie was beginning to cry in earnest. The frustration of this last, stupid difficulty was tipping her over the edge of her tolerance and by the time she was actually opening the door she was sobbing. She slammed it behind her, heedless of the complaints which would no doubt come from their upstairs neighbour.

Fuck ‘im, I’ve had enough tonight!

She threw her bag down and headed for the kitchen, where she knew vodka was waiting. She poured herself a big one, adding ice and tonic to ease its path, and stood there, still in her coat but shoeless, swallowing in great gulps, relishing the burning path it made down to her stomach. She felt the pain abating a little, the edges softened at least by the alcohol. Then she heard the knock on the door.

Tom had run all the way from the White Horse, ignoring the rain. His head was spinning. He felt dreadful, guilty, cruel, as if he had been deliberately hurting someone he was very fond of for years. He didn’t know why, but the overwhelming feeling he had was that he had to put it right, somehow. He had experienced female friends having crushes on him before, but for this long? Without him noticing a thing? He didn’t think his usual tactic of firm and unyielding kindness was going to be of any use in this situation. As he turned the corner into Hazelville Road he was flooded with memories of his days there.

_He had shared flats and houses in his Cambridge days, but this was the best, by far. The flat was pleasant and its location perfect. His flat-mate/landlords were the best part, though. Jimmy was great fun; sarcastic, outrageously camp at times, always entertaining. Rosie was brilliant and lovely, kind and endlessly interesting company. Tom couldn’t imagine life could get much better: he was learning to be an actor, working with clever and talented people, and, at the end of the day, going home to an endless parade of music, laughter and intellectual stimulation. He was going to miss them both terribly when he moved out, but he had to give up his room. He would be on the road for months._

_He was going to miss coming home to find the bathroom full of towels dyed various garish colours by Jimmy’s regular attempts to ‘change his look’; to the delicious smell of pasta sauce or paella bubbling on the stove, being stirred by a smiling Rosie, always happy to share her food with him – there seemed to be enough every time; to a flat full of their a cappella band practicing a new number, filling the cramped sitting-room with harmonies. The first ‘proper’ phase of his career was about to begin, but he felt more than a twinge of sadness. He would miss them._

Rosie froze when she heard the knocking. Jimmy wasn’t coming home tonight: he was staying at Larry’s, and anyway, he had a key. Then it occurred to her it was probably Ivan from upstairs, complaining again. She marched to the door, shedding her soaked coat en route, bristling with anger and spoiling for a row. Her pain was coming out as rage, and she was all ready to blast when she opened the door to see Tom standing on the step and the fight went out of her.

‘Rosie.’

‘What do you want, Tom?’ She looked studiously at his chest, carefully avoiding his face, most of all his eyes. She watched, rapt, as a drop of water made its way down the front of his jacket.

‘We need to talk, Rosie.’ His voice was soft, kind. She couldn’t bear it.

‘I don’t think there is any point, do you?’

‘Please, let me come in. Just for a moment.’

Her rage had dissipated as rapidly as it arose, leaving her drained and weak. Lacking resistance, she turned and walked back into the flat, allowing Tom to follow.

He hated to see her like this: so defeated. He had always admired her strength, the certainty of her opinions, her intellectual rigour. The thought that he might be responsible for this burned into him; he had to make it right. Rosie went into the kitchen and retrieved her glass. She raised the bottle to Tom, her face questioning.

‘No thanks. Look Rosie, I just want…’

‘Please don’t. I can’t take any more, not tonight.’ She took a swig from her glass.

Tom looked at her. She was lovely. Dark bobbed hair, a striking, not conventionally beautiful - but nonetheless attractive - face and a voluptuous figure. She was a woman that any man would be proud to have on his arm. But he had never thought of her as more than a friend. Now he knew his friend was suffering and all he wanted was to hug her and hold her and make it better. But he was the only person on the planet who couldn’t do that for her. No tonight, as she had said. He wanted to cry then.

What a mess.

‘Rosie, I…’

She shook her head. ‘Please Tom, just go. None of this is your fault. Please. Go.’

Rosie thought she might die if he didn’t leave soon. Just the smell of him was driving her out of her mind. She had barely looked at him but his presence was enough; it was burning her like a flame. She stood as far from him as she could get in the cramped kitchen, trying to ignore how handsome and fit he looked. And how sad.

Reluctantly, Tom admitted defeat. There had to be a way out of this, but for the moment all he could see was the damage his blindness and stupidity had done to one of his dearest friends. He turned and left, walking through the night back down to where he had parked his car, his tears blending with the rain.


	4. When Doves Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could you just leave me standing  
> Alone in a world that’s so cold?  
> …don’t make me chase you  
> Even doves have pride

Tom realised his attention must have drifted off when he became aware of a silence in the room for the first time that day. He was with other cast-members, rehearsing the fight scenes in his up-coming role in _Coriolanus_ at the Donmar Warehouse. It was exhilarating, noisy, fun and hard work. They had broken for a makeshift lunch at the side of the room: M & S sandwiches and salads. It was cool in there and now they had stopped he needed his warm jacket to keep the chill off his sweaty back while he ate. He had looked out of the window while he was putting it on and gone into a trance. Now it appeared someone had spoken to him when his mind was miles away.

‘Sorry!’ He shook his head to clear it. ‘What was that?’

Everyone laughed and he joined in, before attempting to fuel up for the afternoon’s work despite his total lack of appetite.

Later, as they packed up for the day, his colleague Hadley asked him if everything was OK.

‘Yes, sorry, I’m fine. Did I seem a bit distracted?’

‘Frankly, yes. Something on your mind, Tom?’

‘You could say that. It was unprofessional of me to bring it here, though. It won’t happen again.’

‘Don’t worry about it, mate. We’ve all done it. But, if something needs sorting, sort it.’

Tom smiled and laughed mechanically. _If only it were that simple._

_Back in London after months away, Tom had been making the rounds of friends and family, recounting his experiences when he had dropped in to see Rosie and Jimmy one Sunday morning. Jimmy was at work, but Rosie welcomed him in, inviting him to join her for brunch. He accepted, and entering the kitchen he saw his postcards decorating the fridge. He pulled one of Moscow from behind its magnet and looked wistfully at it._

_‘You got them then.’_

_Rosie turned to see what he was talking about and blushed slightly. ‘Yes, thanks. It was quite exciting, waiting for the next one to arrive.’ Painful torture might be a more accurate description, she thought. ‘So, what’s next on your agenda?’_

_‘A film, actually…’ Rosie turned again, faster this time, spraying bacon fat around in her haste._

_‘What? Tom, that’s…fantastic!’ She wanted to hug him, hold him, but that had to be his choice. He looked down, shyly._

_‘Yes, just a small, independent, British film, but a feature film, nonetheless.’ He was grinning._

_What’s the role like?_

_‘It’s quite a big one. I’m playing a young man who is a bit of a git, actually.’ He laughed. ‘Not much of a stretch.’_

_‘Shut up! You’re the least gittish bloke I know!’ Rosie turned the hash browns over in the pan. ‘Where’s it being filmed?’_

_‘Tuscany…’_

_‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! You lucky bastard!’_

_She punched him on the shoulder then, and he grabbed her arm and pulled her into a hug. ‘I’ll get you guys tickets for the premier,’ he whispered into her ear, chuckling at his own joke and not noticing how she closed her eyes and relished the feeling of him against her; his breath brushing her cheek, the scent of his hair filling her nose. With an effort Rosie snapped out of it._

_‘Oh, you won’t want anything to do with the likes of us, now you’re going to be a big movie star,’ she joked, extracting herself from his grasp in order to save her sanity. ‘I can see me and Jimmy now, pathetically calling to you from behind the barriers, waving our autograph books, telling anyone who’ll listen how we knew you before you were famous.’ She mimed them flapping around desperately, whining, her voice sounding as if from far off: ‘Tom, Tom, over here, it’s us, Tom…’_

_‘Now YOU shut up!’ Tom was roaring with laughter now, clinging onto the worktop to steady himself. The very idea. His eyes were closed, so he didn’t see the sad expression on Rosie’s face._

_That night she collected the postcards he had sent from every stop on his Cymbeline tour, placing them carefully in her ‘precious things’ box, the one that lived under her bed. Before she placed them on top of the photographs and programmes already stowed inside, she held the bundle to her lips._

_‘Tom,’ she whispered, ‘the big star.’ A tear ran down her cheek. Not having him in the flat hadn’t made the slightest difference; seeing him again was just fresh agony. She sighed. What did she have to look forward to? She was single, over thirty, hopelessly in love with a man who didn’t love her and never would. Her PhD was stalled, probably permanently. Her job was fun, but she’d never get rich doing it. Only singing was keeping her sane._

Rosie would have described herself as ‘not firing on all cylinders’ that day. Hung over and strung out from lack of sleep, she was barely functioning. Fortunately it was a wet and miserable one so Broadway Parade was pretty deserted, with few casual shoppers around. A side-effect of the damp November weather was an increase in traffic on the shop’s website however, and she was dealing with a slight peak in orders as a result. Arthur was having one of his better days, and she was able to ask him to fetch the books for her to set aside for despatch; that was a relief because she feared she might throw up if she had to reach up to the higher shelves at all.

She hadn’t drunk any more vodka after Tom left, but she hadn’t eaten anything all night and had been dehydrated even before the alcohol entered her system. Sleep had evaded her but instead of doing something sensible like getting a glass of water down her neck, or eating some toast, she had lain in bed torturing herself until her alarm shrieked. Now she was drinking water by the gallon, but still could not face any food, so was only feeling a little better. Arthur had inquired discreetly if she was alright, and she had answered him truthfully: no, she wasn’t, and she probably wouldn’t be for a long time, but there was nothing to be done. She just had to wait for time to wear it away.

After closing up Rosie dragged herself up the hill homewards, calling on the last dregs of her energy to carry her back to the flat and somewhere she could lie down. She was puzzled when, even before she opened the door, the scent of essential oils assailed her.

‘Jimbo? What’ya doing?’

‘Get your arse in here, babe.’ His voice came from her room.

_What the…?_

The bedroom was lit by a hundred tea-light candles. Her bed had been converted into a beauty salon couch, and Jimmy stood next to it beaming.

‘I’ve run you a bath – it has a soothing bomb fizzing in it. Get in quick; afterwards I’m giving you a facial and a massage.’

Rosie was speechless. Dear Jimmy! Silently she undressed and lowered her stiff body into the warm water, the scent of lavender and neroli oil filling her head, easing her aching muscles and clearing her mind. Jimmy always knew how to help. He had moved on from John Lewis a couple of years ago and was now the manager of the Regent Street branch of a natural beauty products store. Their fridge was constantly stocked with nearly-out-of-date face masks, scrubs and other potions. And he loved to share his skills: girls’ nights in with treatments were a regular feature for Rosie and her mates, with Jimmy dragging up in order to join in the fun as he plucked eyebrows, smoothed on avocado and popped cucumber slices on eyelids. He was the best girlfriend a woman could wish for.

Rosie had begun to doze off when a loud rapping on the door brought her back to realise she was lying in lukewarm water.

‘Come on! Stage two is ready!’

Dried off and in her robe, Rosie gingerly peered into her room. Jimmy stood by the bed, holding a bottle of oil and indicating she should lie down.

‘On your front, love. I’m going to massage your back, then you’re getting my best reviving facial. But, first, drink this.’

He handed her steaming mug, which she sniffed suspiciously. It smelt OK; citrus and green tea.

‘Go on. It’ll make you feel better.’

‘I already do. Thanks to you. I love you, Jimbo.’

‘Of course you do. Everybody does! Now, on the bed, woman!’

An hour later they were lying together on the sofa, watching Dirty Dancing. Empty take-away food containers littered the coffee table in front of them: Chinese for Jimmy, Lebanese for Rosie. She was nearly asleep; her flat-mate’s ministrations had worked. She still felt horrible inside, but her body was in a much better state. He stroked her hair as she settled her head into his lap; soon she was snoring softly. Jimmy stared ahead of him, not seeing the flickering figures on the screen. He had doused this fire, at least for now, but what of tomorrow? Or the next day?

Rosie refused to talk about her feelings for Tom after the first year since his departure had passed, but Jimmy wasn’t fooled. She mooned about the place, only going out in the evenings for rehearsals and performances with the band. She took no interest in other men, not even celebrities. ‘I can see he’s attractive, Jim, but he does nothing for me.’ She was in pain, but he couldn’t cure it, only distract her for a while. And when she sang he had to swallow the lump in his throat. He felt in his heart that it wasn’t healthy, that raking over the coals of her agony at every show they did. But unless she talked to him, or better still to Tom, nothing was likely to change.

He and Rosie had a short-term sub-tenant after Tom left; a student from Switzerland who seemed to spend all his time in _Spearmint Rhino_. A rich boy, he dropped out of his course after three months but his father had paid them for the entire year so they enjoyed the luxury of a spare room and more time in the morning bathroom rush. That was the year Arthur had asked Rosie to start the web-sales business for him, and he increased her salary enough to cover the rent when coupled with Jimmy’s extra earnings from his new and lucrative side-line in makeovers for drag queens. So Marcus became their last flat-mate, and they lived happily ever after, just the two of them.

If only.

                                    ___________________________

 

Tom kept getting his phone out of his pocket and staring at it. He wanted to call her, text her, something. But what could he say? He had turned the problem over a thousand times in his head over the last twenty-four hours, looking at it from every angle. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not come up with a solution which would help Rosie. Apart from one, and he didn’t want to go down that route. He took another gulp of tea.

The very idea of not seeing Rosie any more, of cutting himself off completely from her made Tom feel ill. Whatever it cost him, he would not, could not do that. True, they had hardly seen each other often over the last year, but that was only because he had been working so much. They had always exchanged long rambling emails and short, snitty texts. These things sustained him, and had kept what he had thought of as their close friendship alive. Now he was going to be in London for a few months. He had looked forward to evenings with Rosie: deep discussions over pasta and Chianti; he had wanted her and Jimmy to come to the Donmar for the press night. He had been looking forward to Rosie’s insights on the production. He remembered how much help she had been to him when he was preparing for Othello and Ivanov.  But it was more than that: he loved her. Not in that way, maybe, but he did love her.

He had to fix this. For both their sakes.

                                    ____________________________

 

Rosie smiled sweetly at the man who stood in front of her, his face a picture of confusion. This wasn’t the first time she had been confronted with this sort of misunderstanding.

‘How much? But they’re not even new!’

‘No sir, but it is a first edition, and in very clean condition.’ He still looked uncomprehending. ‘People collect them. And of course, Mr Tolkien is still very popular.’

‘But hundreds of pounds…?’

Occasionally this would happen; a customer would muddle antiquarian with second-hand. Of course, not everything in the shop was a first edition, or indeed particularly expensive, but first eds of The Lord of The Rings? All three? Never gonna be cheap.

‘Perhaps you’d like to try the second-hand bookshop further down, I’m sure Mr Perkins will have a more modern edition. Or you could get a new copy in paperback at WH Smith, perhaps?’

Still baffled, the middle-aged man left the shop, shaking his head, and headed elsewhere to continue his Christmas shopping.

_Not a book person. Clearly._

Sitting back down at her computer, Rosie spotted a notification on her phone screen.

**< Sorry, home late after all. Don’t keep dinner Jx>**

‘Larry forgiven you, has he Jimbo?’ she murmured, then got back to her task of updating the stock list so the website was accurate. Maybe she’d feature that Tolkien on the front page, now she’d been reminded of its existence.

_Work._

_That was the answer. Work and facials and singing._

Jimmy looked at the text which had reached him just as he was walking up Regent Street on his way to work. It was now eleven, he was drinking his coffee and still he hadn’t answered Tom. He felt angry and frustrated; with Tom, with Rosie, with himself. He hated seeing her like this, not least because he couldn’t help her. Jimmy loved Rosie so much: she was the family he had chosen after his birth family had rejected him. She had been the sister/mother in his hour of need, countless times, and despite all of his best efforts, he had not been able to repay that in kind. He didn’t really blame Tom; it wasn’t his fault, any more than it was Rosie’s. Love doesn’t discriminate. As the man himself said, ‘you can’t legislate for the decisions your heart makes.’

Or for those it doesn’t.

‘I suppose it won’t hurt to meet him for a drink, talk it through.’

He typed rapidly and pressed ‘send’ before he changed his mind again.


	5. Only You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listening to the words that you say  
> Getting harder to stay  
> When I see you  
> All I needed was the love you gave  
> All I needed for another day  
> And all I ever knew  
> Only you

The flat was cold, dark and empty when Rosie got home, so unlike the evening before when Jimmy had pampered her with his perfumed oils, healing touches and tender loving care.

‘Really should get a cat. Make my spinsterhood official,’ she muttered as she walked around the flat switching lights on to brighten things up. Dropping her phone into the dock in the kitchen, she chose the Beatles and began unpacking her shopping. She had bought fresh soup to have as Jimmy wasn’t going to be there; she wanted to work on a song later, and a heavy dinner would make that more difficult. She opted for water rather than wine for the same reason, and fairly quickly she was on the sofa with a tray and the remote. Deciding the news was too depressing, Rosie surfed until she found a _Big Bang Theory_ episode and happy with that, she picked up her spoon and began to eat.

After three mouthfuls she gave up. Her face was stained with tears, her throat tight with sobs. She had kept going all day, cheery; professional, detached, but back here, alone, with no distractions her façade crumbled.

_It’s over. I’ve lost him_

She set the cooling soup aside and leaned forward, her head in her hands. She had no idea how she was going to get through the coming weeks – no, scrub that – the rest of her life. A vast empty plain stretched out ahead of her; featureless, barren. Having him only as a friend had been painful, at times almost unbearable; not having him in her life at all felt like a death sentence.

  _‘Do you know much about Othello?’_

_Not an untypical opening conversational gambit from Thomas, Rosie thought wearily. She smiled to herself, nevertheless, and putting the tea tray on the table she sat down next to him and poured._

_‘Verdi’s or Rossini’s?’ she teased. ‘A little. Why? You’ve been cast in it?’_

_‘Yeah, as Cassio.’_

_‘Oh IDEAL for you, darling.’ Young, eager, handsome, a little green… ‘Where?’_

_‘At the Donmar.’_

_Over the years, ever since Tom graduated from RADA, they had shared many conversations like this. Whenever he was up for a part or just cast, he would call or visit to talk it through with her. She never claimed any special knowledge of the plays or the subject matter, whatever it was. On the contrary, more often than not she knew very little, but Tom always valued her input. She was a wise sounding-board, someone who knew a lot and cared about him._

_‘Wow, well done! Who are playing the Moor and Iago?’_

_‘Chiwetel Ejiofor and Ewan McGregor. I know…’ he broke off, grinning at her open-mouthed wonder._

_‘I wanted to talk about it to you. Would you mind reading the play again?’_

_And so it would go. He would come with questions, ideas, feelings and Rosie would be there, listening, probing, arguing or agreeing. Seeking her insights had become an essential part of his process. He always left her company stimulated, energised, enthused. She made him think, brought different perspectives, not just the female angle, but also her extensive knowledge of European history and culture which often guided him to reading which deepened his understanding of the context of the role._

_Rosie, on the contrary, was always left shattered by his visits. She loved talking to him; he was an endlessly exciting companion and she adored listening to his voice, never mind the things he said. Always perceptive, he was ever eager to learn and an attentive listener. But being with him was a terrible strain on her emotions, and she was frequently completely drained by the time he headed home. Sometimes it took so much of her concentration to hold herself together that her contribution to the conversation was rather stilted. All she could manage were nods and murmured agreeing noises as she did her best not to stare at his mouth or hands working furiously as he made his point._

_But she lived for those times. In many ways, she lived only at those times._

Tom had asked Jimmy to come to his house. A pub or restaurant would have been too public; the very last thing they needed was any interruptions from fans. Armed with a few beers, Jimmy pressed the button. Tom buzzed him through the gate and was waiting on the doorstep, welcoming his friend with a warm hug. Jimmy returned it; he was very fond of Tom, but he wasn’t sure how much help he was going to be to him tonight. He had been grappling with this situation for years to no effect. Tom led him up to the sitting room and after two bottles were opened they sat looking at each other in silence for a few moments.

Eventually Tom leaned forward, elbows on his splayed knees.

‘I have to do _something_ , Jimmy. I can’t lose her.’

The other man sighed; he had known that was what Tom was going to say. He had seen how well he and Rosie got on, how much they both got out of their discussions; Tom had gained a great deal from her insights over the years.

‘It depends on what you are trying to achieve, love. You don’t _want_ her, do you, the way she does you?’

Tom held his gaze for a moment, then looked down at the rug.

‘I thought not. So, can the two of you stay friends, now that this has all come out? What do _you_ think?’

Tom remained mute.

‘It’s hard to imagine that you can return to the same relationship you had before, knowing what you do. And I think Rosie would find that impossible too.’ He paused, not sure what to say next. He looked at Tom, who was now staring straight ahead, his jaw working under the skin, his whole body a mass of tension. ‘I know you love her, but is that enough?’

Tom stood up and began to pace the room, fists clenched. In his head a hundred scenes were playing out, all of them ending with Rosie in tears. He tried to think of a way out, but there wasn’t one. He couldn’t remember feeling so lost, so frustrated, so helpless since his parents’ divorce. For some stupid reason, he had been pinning his hopes on Jimmy; wise and intuitive Jimmy who knew Rosie better than anyone. But now he saw that the two of them had to work this out between them; nobody else could help.

‘I do have one recommendation, though.’ Jimmy was looking at his hands which were clutching his beer. Tom stopped his relentless movement and stood still and quiet.

‘Let her know that you aren’t giving up on her. If she thinks she is losing you for good, I don’t know what she’ll do. Tell her how you feel about all this, then let her be for a bit.’

Jimmy rode home on the Tube feeling only slightly better than when he arrived at Tom’s. Between them they had agreed on a course of action, but the next step depended on Rosie. For the moment, he would go home and keep his gob shut. He had been texting his boyfriend Larry madly, trying to smooth ruffled feathers. They had fallen out slightly the day before: instead of enjoying their joint day off, Jimmy had spent most of his time fretting about Rosie and had gone home early to set up his makeshift beauty salon for her.

**_< I’m only asking you to bear with me for a bit, until things settle down Jxxx>_ **

**< OK, but don’t forget me. Movie tmrw?Lxx>**

**_< Ideal darling. <3 Jxxxx>_ **

When he got home Rosie was in bed; she was asleep, as far as he could tell. He crept around trying not to wake her, and went to bed himself fairly soon after. But sleep didn’t come easily. He worried that his advice to Tom was not good: what if Rosie had a complete meltdown? He felt responsible for both of them; they were in so much pain. Then he remembered that the band had a rehearsal tomorrow, and a gig in Camden on Friday. That made him start to worry whether Rosie would be up to performing or not. And it made him realise he would have to cancel his plans with Larry.

It was going to be a long night.

_Tom had heard Jimmy’s distinctive shriek of approval clearly above the tumultuous applause on the opening night of Othello. He scanned the audience and spotted him and Rosie, smiles beaming, in the second row. He couldn’t see their faces well enough to spot the tears in Rosie’s eyes. She was so happy for him, the production was brilliant and he was – of course – superb. He had them around afterwards for a drink in the dressing-room, glowing in the warmth of their praise and the exhilaration of the performance._

_‘You were wonderful, all of you. I might be biased,’ Rosie smiled shyly, ‘but I thought you were best.’_

_Tom caught her in a bear hug, grinning at Jimmy over her shoulder. His friend watched them with a hint of anxiety. He was well aware what these encounters cost Rosie._

_Some months later, they were both ecstatic when Tom was nominated for and ultimately won an Olivier Award for his performance as Cassio. A large bouquet arrived at the bookshop on the Monday after the ceremony. The card read:_

**_‘Half of the award is yours. I couldn’t have done it without you, darling. Tom x’_ **

_Rosie kept the flowers until the last one was drooping and on the point of death. The card joined her other treasures under the bed._

Tom was throwing himself full-pelt into the rehearsal: he was a ball of rage, storming around the room, scattering the chairs he was supposed to just knock over. All the impotence and pain he was feeling about the situation between him and Rosie was coming out as Caius Martius’ anger at the Senate and the population of Rome. Seeing real alarm on the faces of his fellows, and on that of Josie the director, he excused himself from the room temporarily to splash water on his face. He was glaring at himself in the mirror when Mark Gatiss knocked on the door of the gents’ toilet and came in.

‘Everything alright, love?’ he said to Tom’s reflection.

‘Not really, no. Sorry Mark. There’s a bit of thing happening with an old friend and I am letting it get to me.’ Mark nodded sagely. ‘I thought I could channel it, maybe use it, but I think it’s a bit too intense, even for _Coriolanus._ ’

Mark put his hand on Tom’s shoulder, letting it slide down and patted him on the back.

‘We’re taking five, but you take as long as you need, darling. We’ve all been there.’

Tom watched as Mark’s reflection left. Telling himself to get a grip, he dried his face and returned to the rehearsal-room.

                                    ____________________________

Thursday night was rehearsal night, every other week. _The Thieving Magpies_ were warming up for Christmas, adding a few seasonal ditties to their usual set, and trying – and failing – to agree on festive stage outfits. Rosie had prepared an arrangement of _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,_ Judy Garland-style. This went down well with the others, and after the usual bickering and a quick run-through of their existing repertoire of Christmas numbers, they parted. They had gigs the next night and on Sunday, the latter one in Lambeth, at a new venue for them. Hugh was excited as this was with a pub company which had many live music venues all over the capital. It could be the beginning of something big.

They had used the _Hind Quarters_ to meet, as they often did when it was available, so Rosie and Jimmy simply walked home through the chilly but mercifully dry darkness afterwards. He hugged her to him as they trudged up the hill from Crouch End, singing _God Rest You Merry Gentlemen_ as they went to keep out the cold. When they got in, Jimmy made tea and they settled on the sofa. He steeled himself and then said the speech he had been rehearsing in his head all evening.

‘I had a drink with Tom on Wednesday.’

Rosie flinched but remained silent, just looking at Jimmy out of the corner of her eye.

‘He wants to see you, talk a few things through.’

Rosie sighed. ‘What is there to talk about? I’m in love with him, he sees me as a friend. Er… that’s it.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can’t see what good us seeing each other can do. I mean, that’s not going to change, is it?’

‘Just give him a chance, Rosie. He is distraught about all this. You know he loves you.’

She gritted her teeth, determined not to start crying again. Her body betrayed her, however: it was wracked with trembling shudders.

_What was the point, really?_ _But to see him, be with him, just one more time_ …

‘Alright, if he must, I suppose I can take one more ritual humiliation.’

Alone in his room later, Jimmy texted Tom with the news. Then he arranged to be elsewhere at the appointed hour. 


	6. Just Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let’s be exposed and unprotected  
> Let’s see each other when we’re weak…  
> Don’t say nothing  
> Just sit next to me  
> Don’t say nothing shhhh  
> Just, be, just be

The bedroom was cold after the steamy heat of her shower, but Rosie couldn’t stay under the water until it ran cold – not tonight. Jimmy was hopping around awaiting his turn in the bathroom; they had a show to do. So instead of crying herself hoarse as she wanted to, she concentrated on preparing for the performance. Slowly, as she made up her face, blow-dried her hair and dressed, she wrapped herself in layers of insulation; the process numbed her emotions. By the time Jimmy tapped softly on her door she was ready; inside and out.

Jimmy had his usual melt-down just before they were due to be picked up. He couldn’t find the tie he wanted to wear; Rosie located it for him, lying - where he had left it, of course - on the kitchen worktop. This had become a ritual for them, this last-minute panic, and it comforted them both that night; something normal, reassuringly so. Because nothing felt normal for Rosie. She had no idea if she would be able to sing any of her solos; the songs, especially some of the words, were so bound up in her head with her love for Tom. Jimmy had asked her at breakfast if she was going to be OK, and she had snapped at him. He kept mum, knowing that she had to consider the possibility, and understanding why she didn’t want to. Now that she heard Hugh’s horn beep on the street outside, her legs felt like jelly and weighed a ton. But as so often in the last ten years, her sensible, utilitarian, schoolteacher nature kicked in. People were relying on her.

_You have obligations. You can, you MUST do this_

‘Let’s go, Jimbo!’

The pub was packed: Friday nights in November seemed to be a warm-up for Christmas, with the punters anxious to exorcise the memory of a miserable week’s weather and work. They had played this venue many times over the past decade, and were greeted warmly by a friendly crowd. The room was set up cabaret-style, and all the tables were occupied as far as Jimmy could see against the lights.  They launched into _Under the Bridge_ and it felt like any other gig; to all of them except Jimmy and Rosie.

**_I don’t ever wanna feel_ **

**_Like I did that day_ **

**_Take me to a place I love_ **

**_Take me far away_ **

He watched her from the corner of his eye, swaying as she and the others supported Dale’s lead. Their carefully choreographed moves, the ones they had been doing for years, filled the stage with action and light; their sparkling dresses and jackets glittered. Rosie was lost in the moment, riding on the crest of the music. They had performed this song a hundred times; she barely needed to think about what she sang or how she moved her body. Free-floating in the sound, she only came back into herself when she caught Paul’s eye. He was looking at her oddly; she felt the moisture on her cheek and knew why.

_‘Do you know ‘Under the Bridge’? You know, the Red Hot Chilli Peppers?’_

_Jimmy nodded enthusiastically. ‘You’re thinking it might suit the Magpies?’_

_Tom nodded and began picking out the melody on his guitar. They were in the garden at Hazelville Road, waiting for the barbecue to get hot. Rosie was making coleslaw in the kitchen, listening to the conversation and occasionally joining in._

_‘It has a strong melody and the starkness of it would work for you, I think. Do you like it, Rosie?’_

_She laughed as she came through the door with a glass of wine. ‘You don’t have to come with a song suggestion every time, darling. Just yourself and a bottle will do us.’_

_‘No, honestly, I was listening to it the other night and I thought of you.’_

_Rosie, now sitting on the step above, kissed him on the forehead, just by his hairline. It was one of her favourite places on him. She watched as he and Jimmy ran through the song, joining in as they began to talk through possible arrangements. By the end of that evening they were well on the way to perfecting what was to become one of the cornerstones of The Thieving Magpies’ act. Tom was visiting before he set off for Sweden to start filming a TV series. He was excited, as usual, and trying to pick Rosie’s brains._

_‘I went there once, when I was fourteen, darling boy. Knowing you, you know way more about the place than me by now.’_

_‘But what did you feel about it, while you were there?’_

_‘I liked it, but we weren’t anywhere near where you’re going. We were up near Stockholm. My memory, such as it is, is of lakes and trees and beautiful blonde boys.’ She grinned at him. ‘You’ll fit right in.’_

_Tom had spent the night on the sofa after they had all eaten too much grilled meat and drank too much red wine. Rosie crept by him on the way to the bathroom in the early morning, pausing for a few minutes to watch him sleep, his face just visible in the pale light of the dawning day. It hurt her heart to look at him; what she wouldn’t have given to be beside him, wrapped in his long arms, her head resting on that firm chest as it rose and fell to the rhythm of his breathing. She sighed sadly. She was pretty sure he was going to be a star once the TV show came out. Surely the world would see his beauty and talent, and then he would be gone; far away, off to America or wherever they make movies these days. There would be no more of these intimate evenings. The friendship she and Jimmy shared with Tom would be consigned to the past as his career took off._

_But her love, she knew that would remain the same wherever he was, whatever he was doing._

Rosie’s mind raced ahead, through the set list, trying to tell if there was a song that wouldn’t remind her of Tom. Of course there wasn’t. Not because he had a direct connection to it, necessarily, but because her heart had been so full of him for so long that he touched on all aspects of her life. She could associate them all with him, not just her solos, not just the love songs. She closed her eyes, picturing his smiling face in the audience in a dozen different places. She had to toughen up or she would have to give it up. It had been painful before, but singing had been a safety-valve for her pent-up feelings. Now she wanted to cry all the time, and everything, literally everything reminded her of Tom and the situation she had got herself into.

As the set moved on to the next number, Rosie looked at her companions. Kate, her classmate from UCL who had got her into this in the first place: now a high school history teacher with three children, she loved performing. She was good at it, too; a willowy blonde who was a sexy dancer and superb at holding the backing vocals together. Kate never wanted to sing a solo, but she made up for it with her rock-steady support for everyone else.

Jules was the newest member, a petite Liverpudlian who worked with Jimmy at John Lewis for years before they discovered a shared musical interest. Her rich bluesy voice was a great enhancement to their sound, and now, as she sang the solo in _You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,_ Rosie admired her beautiful coffee-coloured face and big, round brown eyes. She always felt like a hippo between her and Kate. Jules was seeing Paul, who had been a founder-member. It had been going on for a while, at least a year, but they had kept quiet about it. Jimmy had guessed immediately of course: nothing got past his eagle eye. Nobody said anything, but the looks they exchanged spoke volumes. Rosie wasn’t jealous, not really.

Dale and Ed were the only other couple in the band, had been since Uni. It was sweet; really, they were utterly devoted to each other and Ed’s mother who lived with them. She came to the show most weeks, leading the cheers. She was proud of her son and adored Dale. Actually, everyone adored Dale: he was the most thoughtful person Rosie knew, kinder even than Jimmy. He was always the last to leave, helping carry out the sound equipment and refusing to go home until he was certain nobody needed him or his strong arms. He was huge, wide and tall, not unlike Chris Hemsworth. The very definition of a ‘gentle giant’, he had a sweet singing voice. Both he and Ed were nurses at UCH.

Hugh was an enigma. Rosie always wondered why he hadn’t studied music instead of philosophy, because he lived for it. She suspected he wanted them to go fully professional, but none of them could really afford the risk, not at their time of life. All of the founder-members were in their early forties or nearly, with mortgages and responsibilities. Hugh himself was married with two kids and a house in Enfield. Teaching philosophy at the University of East London, he seemed happy, but he really only came alive on stage. Not unlike Rosie herself.

_Space Oddity_ began, and she realised she only had two numbers before _Sign Your Name,_ the song that had got her into trouble at their last gig. She had to gather herself or she would just dissolve into a puddle. That song evoked so many memories of Tom; that was why it had betrayed her on Monday. It would be the acid test tonight: if she could get through that, she could survive the rest. If tonight went well, or if she at least kept her shit together, then she might be able to carry on singing with the band.

_Hugh was losing his temper. They were supposed to be rehearsing a new set list, and some of them seemed intent on behaving like naughty children. Calling the room to order, her persuaded Paul and Dale to stop arm-wrestling long enough to get some work done. He, Ed and Rosie had brought new numbers to be tried out; they had recorded them on CDs, singing all the parts to demonstrate. Only Rosie, Hugh and Jimmy read music to any standard, so this was the most efficient way to learn a new arrangement. Rosie’s contribution was the Terence Trent D’Arby hit, ‘Sign Your Name’. They all loved the idea and her sexy-sad rendition had Hugh bubbling with enthusiasm. Only Jimmy was a little lukewarm, but that was for reasons known only to him and Rosie._

_It had been five years since Tom moved out, and Rosie showed no signs of getting over him. Jimmy had begun to recognise that nothing would change, but he could hardly bear to watch the way she tortured herself. She assured him it was therapeutic to sing these sad, sexy, romantic songs, but he remained unconvinced. From where he stood it looked like she was just picking the scab off at every gig. He hated how she was in the aftermath of one of Tom’s –now rare – visits. Often in low spirits for days, Rosie moved onto the sofa and watched tear-jerkers or listened to sad music, sometimes for weeks. Jimmy had bitten his tongue more than once, especially on the one occasion Tom seemed to notice something and asked him quietly if she was getting over a heartbreak. He had nearly blurted it all out that night. Maybe it would be better if he had._

_The rest of the rehearsal had gone well, and they had been able to add three new numbers to their repertoire. As well as ‘Sign You Name’, Ed’s Madonna favourite ‘Who’s That Girl’ and Hugh’s own contribution, ‘Psycho Killer’ (to join ‘Road to Nowhere’ in their Talking Heads section) were successfully run through. Between them they worked on the running order, making sure the balance and rhythm of the show was maintained. Rosie managed to hang onto all of her sad, romantic solos, Jimmy noticed; they went down a storm with audiences, and Hugh made sure they always pleased the crowd. But at what cost?_

The comedy arrangement of _Summertime_ reached its conclusion, and Rosie tightened her stomach, ready – she hoped – to sing _Sign Your Name._ Somehow she got through it. Lying in bed that night, she couldn’t imagine how she had done it. Her entire body ached from the effort of not crying, not crumbling to dust right there.

**_All alone with you makes the butterflies in me arise_ **

**_Slowly we make love_ **

**_And the earth rotates to our dictates_ **

**_Slowly we make love…_ **

Jimmy watched in awe as Rosie took her applause. She was amazing. He knew what that had taken out of her, though. He saw how her legs shook, how her fists were clenched. She sang all her solos that way, that night: as if her life depended on some invisible judging panel. She laid her heart out for all to see: _Look, see how broken it is? See how it bleeds?_ As they made their way to the makeshift ‘dressing-room’ (really just a cupboard) her legs gave out, and Jimmy caught her before she hit the floor.

Ed and Dale took them home in their car, Jimmy in the back with Rosie’s head in his lap. Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

‘I did it, Jim. I got through it.’

‘Shhh love. It’s OK. You’ll be OK.’

‘Will I? Will I really, Jimmy?’

He did the only thing he could. He had never lied to her; that was their deal. Always straight, always honest.

‘I don’t know, love. But if you’re not, I’ll be here.’


	7. Let Me Down Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let me down easy  
> I know it’s all over  
> But the last goodbye  
> When you pass by me  
> Say hello once in a while

Saturday was always the best day of the week at the shop. Arthur’s seventeen-year-old great-niece Lauren came in most weeks to work the till and wrap online orders, freeing Rosie to unpack new consignments and do other admin. She was itching to get to grips with a packing case that had arrived earlier in the week when she was feeling at her worst. Now, despite extreme tiredness and anxiety about Tom’s impending visit the next morning, she felt a little better – physically, at least.

She had got through the show.

She had sung everything without faltering, even Only Love Can Hurt Like This, the very thought of which usually made her tear up a little at the best of times. The future didn’t look quite so bleak this morning, and anyway, she was dying to see what Arthur had bought. A country house was being cleared and the library auctioned off in batches bearing only the vaguest descriptions. Arthur loved this kind of thing, claiming it was the only way to make serious money in the business. The lot in front of her had been captioned ‘antiquarian, mostly leather-bound, mixed, clean condition.’ No idea of the subject, age or anything else.

It was like a lucky-dip at the fair. She lifted off the lid and, closing her eyes, delved in.

Rosie’s first dive yielded an unexciting set of Thackeray and four nice HG Wells first editions. These last books were probably worth nearly all of what her boss had paid, just on their own. That was good. Another fishing expedition: this time her catch was a tatty copy of Bleak House and a collapsing astronomical tome. The Dickens was salvageable but the other book looked beyond help. Breathing deep, Rosie went back in, this time emerging with a mid-nineteenth century edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was beautiful, rich red leather with gold embossing, and as she opened it carefully, Rosie discovered an inscription on the inside cover: For Juliet, my beloved wife. Richard. She sighed happily; she always loved it when she found something like this. It gave the book a character, a history. Settling onto her bottom with her legs crossed, Rosie began to read.

_… No matter then although my foot did stand_

_Upon the farthest earth removed from thee;_

_For nimble thought can jump both sea and land_

_As soon as think the place where he would be._

_But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,_

_To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone…_

Fucking Will. Always gets me. Bastard.

Rosie turned several pages before stopping to read again.

_Being your slave, what should I do but tend_

_Upon the hours and times of your desire?_

_I have no precious time at all to spend,_

_Nor services to do, till you require…_

Oh great. Forty-four was bad enough. Now I turn to fifty-seven?

Rosie put the book down and walked into the tiny kitchenette to put the kettle on. Shaking her head to clear it, she opened the fridge and discovered they had no milk. She grabbed her coat and went into the shop.

‘We need milk and some bits, Lauren. Will you be OK for a few if I pop out?’

‘I’ll be fine, Rosie.’ The younger woman’s smile was dazzling. Rosie liked Lauren a lot. She reminded her of herself at that age; she was even studying for the same A-levels.

‘Lovely! If you get in a pickle, Arthur is just upstairs. I’m sure he could manage to help you in a crisis. I won’t be long, anyway.’

Broadway Parade was cold but bright that morning, the watery winter sun dazzling her, low in the sky as she crossed the busy street towards Waitrose. The air was harsh on her cheek, with a wind whistling down the road ruffling the coats and scarves of the shoppers around her. Every window was adorned with traditional Christmas imagery, the only variations being the amount of good taste applied to the displays. Doorways opened to allow the canned jingle of sleigh bells and Slade to leak out as Rosie passed. She felt detached from the forced jollity; Christmas seemed an ocean away to her; an alien concept to her troubled heart.

Twenty minutes later she emerged from the supermarket, two bags of groceries in her hands. She had decided to get her own shopping while she was at it. As well as food, she had bought wine and a fresh bottle of vodka; not a big drinker normally, she was consciously allowing herself to wallow. She didn’t like chocolate, and anyway when she was upset eating was last on her list of priorities, but booze? That helped blot things out nicely, at least for a while. A little voice at the back of her mind kept pointing out that meeting Tom with a massive hangover probably wasn’t a good idea, but she was ignoring it.

Back at the shop with a freshly-brewed cup of tea beside her, Rosie sat back down in her spot on the floor and picked up the Shakespeare again. She opened it at random, and as she read the words on the page, fresh tears began to fall.

_Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,_

_And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:_

_The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;_

_My bonds in thee are all determinate._

_For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?_

 

_‘Well I for one am not even a little bit surprised.’ Jimmy was up a step-ladder, trying to change a light bulb in the sitting room; he was mostly succeeding at the cost of a stream of invective. Rosie had just read him the text she had received a few minutes earlier. Tom had told her he had been cast as Henry V in a big new BBC adaptation. ‘I mean, he’s flavour of the month with casting directors by the look of it. And he’s Branagh’s protégé; that must count for a lot.’_

_Rosie hugged her phone to her chest. She was so happy for him. This, on top of ‘Thor’ and the Spielberg and Woody Allen movies! But with every step he took towards superstardom (Rosie never doubted that was where Tom was headed) he got further away from her. With every success, every Guardian interview, every awards ceremony, the tiny grain of hope that she held in her heart was eroded just a little more._

_She would never admit it, not even to herself, but she had harboured a dream that one day – one amazing, wonderful day - he would notice how much she loved him. That he would suddenly turn to her, take her in his arms and love her back. The more famous he got, the longer time went on, the less likely that highly improbably scenario got. Her dream was only ever that: a silly, pointless, ridiculous dream. The rational side of her knew that, but then, that side of her would never have fallen in love with him in the first place, seeing how hopeless it was. And that side of her wasn’t in control in this situation._

_Over the years she had known him, there had been a few women in Tom’s life. A couple of the relationships were serious, and Rosie acted the loving, sympathetic friend when they went pear-shaped. She wasn’t pleased about it; she hated to see him in pain, but she would have been a liar if she had said she was devastated. She had been there for him when he needed her, and the very fact that he had never once, in all the years – not even when he was drunk - tried to as much as kiss her should have told her everything she needed to know. But still that tiny spark of hope refused to burn out._

_As the heart-sore so often have, Rosie turned to poetry for solace. That was a double-edged sword: she associated it with him, of course. But there was no escape for her, whichever way she went; the words did soothe and they were a balm when she needed one. She was almost as big a fan of the Bard as he was, and the sonnets were her favourites. But oh, they could cut her to the bone. Worst of all, aware of her enthusiasm, one Christmas Tom gave her a collection: a lovely old edition, beautifully inscribed with sweet words. He could never have known how much it hurt her to read them._

_To my dear friend Rosie – my help-mate, my teacher, my inspiration:_

_‘So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,_

_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.’_

 

That morning, Tom had run further than had been normal recently. He had been building his body up for the role of Caius Martius; he needed to look like a warrior, a man capable of taking an entire city single-handed, and he felt he was pretty much there. Good job, because they opened next week. He had kept up his daily runs but finding the time for a long one had been difficult. There was rehearsal, the gym, costume fitting, the odd conference call with GDT and others about Crimson Peak… But today he had needed to stretch his legs more than ever: he had to think through what he was going to say to Rosie tomorrow.

It was less than a week since he had seen the way she looked at him as she sang that old Terence Trent D’Arby song. Less than a week since he saw – finally - the pain of unrequited love so clearly in her eyes. Less than a week, but it felt longer. Time since that night had dragged: he had spent long hours tossing and turning in bed; drifting off and losing concentration in the rehearsal room; letting his dinner go cold in front of him as he thought about her. He felt stupid, useless; and angry, but only with himself. Now that he knew, now that it was so obvious to him, he could recall a thousand little clues he could have, and should have noticed before.

But there was no going back and fixing it. He had to start from where he was; where they were. He would tell her tomorrow that he loved her, that he wanted her to stay a part of his life, but only if she wanted that too. He would make no promises, give her no false hope; just be honest. He valued her as a friend. The sort of friend you keep forever, if you can.

 

A rush of customers kept Rosie away from the sonnets for some time after Lauren’s lunch, meaning over two hours had passed before she was able to get back to her self-flagellating by way of Shakespeare. When she did, she opened the edition randomly again and Sonnet II popped into her vision.

_When forty winters shall besiege thy brow_

_And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,_

Oh thanks, Will. Thanks again. ‘A tatter’d weed’, yes, that sounds like me…

‘Enough,’ she thought, and putting the book aside – it would go for a fair bit, she estimated – she finished unpacking the lot and set everything neatly on one side ready for cataloguing. Rosie stayed behind after closing, working at the computer, not wishing to go back to an empty flat – Jimmy was spending the night at Larry’s – and only left when Arthur came down from upstairs to make her. She gave in, and reluctantly made her way through the irritatingly festive streets, up the hill to home.

She didn’t drink much in the end. Two glasses of wine to wash down the ready-made stuffed pasta she had chosen for her dinner in front of _Strictly Come Dancing_. She was tired; bone-weary from a week of restless nights and emotional turmoil. When she thought about the next morning she was filled with a conflicting mixture of excitement and dread. She always loved to see Tom; he was the light of her life, her reason for living. But this could be the last time; would almost certainly be the last time. He was bound to say that he felt they shouldn’t see each other anymore, and in some ways Rosie felt that would be best for her too. But tonight the prospect of a Tom-free existence made her want to curl up and die. She lay in bed, eyes open, staring blindly at the ceiling.

Across London, Tom was doing much the same. He had written himself a script, but of course that only worked up to a point. He was entering uncharted waters with Rosie. Picking over his memories of her this week he had realised that he had never actually seen her lose control before. Her emotions were always reined in; she got enthusiastic about things, excited, but she hadn’t ever really let go in his presence. She hadn’t cried in front of him, except at sad movies, and he had never seen her lose her temper, not even with inanimate objects the way Jimmy did on a daily basis. It made sense, of course; a defence mechanism. But it meant that he had nothing to go on, no way to know how things would go tomorrow. He just had to trust that their love for one another would be enough. He lay there, watching as the headlights of passing cars raced across his ceiling, unable to close his eyes, his body taught with tension.


	8. When You're Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times when I feel paper-thin and see-through  
> Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me lonely  
> Every time I let it go I’m high and dry…  
> Oh the mystery and the magic  
> You light up what once was tragic  
> And I know that I will miss you when you’re gone…

Mirrors can be harsh, Rosie thought as she peered at her reflection. Jimmy had insisted they install dressing-room style lights around the one in the bathroom, so he could pretend he was famous or something… Anyway, it was good when she was making up ready for a show, but this morning she would have preferred a bit of candlelight. She could see every one of her two-score years etched on her face, and those deep lines between her eyebrows were a testament to the endless hours she had spent missing Tom. Pulling a face at herself, she straightened up and left the room.

She was like a cat on a hot tin roof; unable to settle, she wandered the flat aimlessly. Tom had said he would be there at 9.30, and he would be bringing breakfast. Rosie had prepared the pot for tea and a cafetière in case that was what he preferred.  It was the work of moments in either case, but she had to keep finding things to do - something, anything to occupy her twitching fingers. She stacked and re-stacked the books on the coffee table; she sorted the magazines that had accumulated in the corner; she straightened every picture in the flat. She fought against the overwhelming urge to keep checking the clock every thirty seconds; she did not succeed. Regardless of the fact that she had been anticipating the moment for hours, when the knock on the door came she jumped out of her skin, such was the tension within her. Feeling as if she was traversing a muddy field, Rosie walked to the door and opened it.

Tom had decided to drive over; there were usually a few parking spaces around there, and it stopped him fretting if he had to concentrate on the road. He went via the French-owned bakery that was a favourite when he lived in the flat. The owner remembered him, and even anticipated his order:

‘Deux croissants, deux pains-au-chocolat, monsieur?’

‘S’il vous plait!’

The pastries smelt delicious, and the familiarity of their scent and the sights around him transported Tom back to those happy days when he was at RADA and living with Rosie and Jimmy. Life seemed less complicated then, and endlessly exciting. He had plenty of excitement in his life still, but he missed the camaraderie of sharing sometimes. The friendship of Jimmy and especially Rosie was so important to him that he had worked hard on keeping it alive. He hoped that today would not mark its end.

Despite everything that had happened, Rosie couldn’t help but smile when she saw him standing there, his head tilted shyly downwards, his graceful hands holding the paper bag from the boulangerie on Middle Lane he had always loved so much. She could smell the chocolate from where she stood; his sweet tooth was showing, as usual. Wordlessly she invited him in, standing aside to allow him to pass.

She had expected him to go right to the kitchen, so she was surprised when she turned from closing the door to find him still in the hall, standing quite close to her. She could feel the cold air falling off him as she hesitated, not sure what to do. Then he reached for her arm.

‘Rosie…’

She wasn’t ready.

‘Coffee or tea, darling?’ She swept past him to put the kettle on.

Tom‘s head dropped. Patience, that’s the key. He hung his warm woollen coat and scarf on the crowded hooks by the door and set off down the hall after Rosie. She was looking expectantly at him when he reached her, kettle in hand.

‘Oh, er…I think coffee, with these, don’t you?’

He held up the bag he was still holding, and saw a little twinge of pain cross her face. He hated that, but he knew it was going to be impossible not to hurt her today, one way or another. Watching as she poured the boiling water into the cafetière, he made an effort to really see her. Not to assume anything, but try to look at her as if he hadn’t known her for over ten years, hadn’t stood next to her, right there, a hundred times, as she made the coffee or opened the wine.  

She was, he recognised, quite lovely. Her dark brown hair shimmered under the lights, and Tom’s eyes were drawn to her full pink lips; how come he had never noticed those properly before? He saw the simple grace of her movements as she opened and closed cupboards, lining up plates and mugs ready for their feast. She piled everything on a tray, adding the sugar jar with rolling eyes: she never approved of him taking it in drinks.

Rosie’s heart was hammering. She felt light-headed, a little bit sick. She had only glanced at him, not trusting her eyes to leave him of they settled too long. Even so, she knew he looked lovely this morning, as always. His arms looked bigger; she could see the muscle he had put on through the thin cashmere jumper he was wearing, and his face was flushed from the change of temperature now he was indoors. She took a deep breath, aware of how her body ached for him.

She could feel his eyes on her as she assembled the breakfast. Was he taking a last look? Perhaps. The bag from _Le Four du Pierre_ hurt her heart: would he ever bring her croissants again? Probably not. She fought to keep her hand steady as she made the coffee: she would not crumble in front of him. She never had, not in ten years: she wouldn’t now. Not even at the end.

Tom lifted the tray before she had time to, carrying it into the sitting-room as she followed. She and Jimmy had never had a dining-table. There wasn’t really room for one and in any case they rarely sat down to dinner together; when they did, it was usually in front of the TV. Tom set the tray down on the coffee table and waited for Rosie to sit before joining her on the sofa.  She poured the coffee and passed him a plate. It dawned on him that they had barely said a word since he arrived.

‘Would you like one?’

He had picked up the open bag of pastries and was offering it to her. She smiled and helped herself to a croissant. He took a pain-au-chocolat and leaned back in his seat. Tearing off a morsel he put it in his mouth. They were as good as he remembered, better, maybe. He turned his head and looked at Rosie. She was sitting stiffly on the edge of the seat, making no effort to eat. Without thinking, he put his hand on her arm and she flinched.

‘Oh Rosie…’

She stood up, and stepped a foot or two away, turning her back. Her voice sounded far off.

‘Please don’t be nice to me, Tom. If you’re going to be nice to me I will probably cry, and I don’t want your last memory of me to be that.’

‘Last memory of you? I don’t want this to be the last anything!’ Tom got to his feet. ‘I came here to ask you to let me stay your friend, if you can bear it. I don’t want to lose you, Rosie. Please don’t send me away forever.’

She stood still and quiet for a long time, processing what he had said. She replayed in her head what she thought she had heard.

_…let me stay your friend…I don’t want to lose you_

Tom watched her, shoulders tense, hands working. Was she deciding how to tell him to fuck off? He prayed not, while fearing it was true. Then he saw the tension ease as those same shoulders began to shake, and he realised she was crying. He wrestled with an overwhelming desire to comfort her with a cuddle, knowing that after her reaction to one touch, that would not be a good idea.

‘Rosie…’ his voice was soft, pleading. ‘…please, don’t make me leave.’

She turned back to him, and he saw her as he never had before: raw, exposed, broken. This was not his intellectual sparring-partner of a hundred banter-filled evenings, the friend who had guided him to Wagner in his pursuit of the essence of Loki: the one who had told him about her uncle who couldn’t talk about anything but the War, like poor Freddie; who had walked him through the history of the Plantagenets so he could bring the right gravitas to King Harry. That person wasn’t around today.

Tom felt his heart break a little as he looked at her face. She was looking down, and despite himself he lifted her chin with his hand; he needed to see her eyes. Rosie lowered her lids, forcing the tears onto her cheeks, avoiding the eye-contact she doubted she could stand.

‘Please, Rosie. If you can, please let me stay in your life.’

She looked so sad, so lonely, so very vulnerable that Tom had an urge to kiss those beautiful lips. He resisted. He had resolved not to give her false hope, to be totally honest. Kissing her now, much as he wanted to, would be the mixed message to end all mixed messages. But he desired it, nonetheless.

When she spoke, it was just a whisper. ‘Do you really want that, Tom?’

He brushed a tear off her cheek and she opened her eyes. He nodded. ‘More than anything.’

She looked at him then. It took all her strength, but she let her thoughts go forward into a future she had thought was lost. Could she bear it? Would it be better or worse than losing him completely? She had expected him to bid her a fond farewell, finding her feelings for him at best awkward and pitiable, at worst repellent. This… this was not what she was prepared for.

‘I don’t know.’ She sat down again, and Tom sat next to her, still fighting that urge which seemed irrepressible to pull her into an embrace. ‘It was different when you didn’t know. Now… I’m not sure. I think I need time.’

‘You’ll have it. Whatever you need.’

He picked up his coffee and the sweet pastry he had started and they ate in companionable silence while Rosie tried to still her maelstrom mind. Suddenly she remembered his play.

‘Are you ready to open?’

‘Just about. I have some tickets for you and Jim. Will you come?’

‘If we can. Yes, I’d like to.’

She dared to turn and look at his face. This close to him she could smell his fragrance, feel his warmth. Did he mean it? Could they still be friends? Rosie looked at his eyes, searching for pity; she could put up with anything but that. She gazed into those blue pools, almost drowning but finding nothing but affection. Tears still pricked but she was getting control of it now. They stayed like that for a while. Rosie wished he’d try touching her again.

As they finished their breakfast, occasionally speaking about comparatively mundane, normal things like the shop, the band or Tom’s work, Rosie felt herself relaxing a little. If she could survive this, maybe she could come to a sort of agreement with her feelings. They could stay, as long as they didn’t show themselves. Was that a practical idea? It could hardly be worse than how her life had been, could it? And, she thought to herself cynically, it makes for a good show.

Tom, on the other hand, felt tenser. He was relieved that she was at least willing to consider remaining friends, but his mind was filled with a thousand questions. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? Why hadn’t she told him – or at least hinted to him - how she felt? Why, when she knew he didn’t reciprocate, hadn’t she moved on? How had she lived with this for so long? He wanted answers; he knew this was not the time to get them. But the biggest question in his mind was one only he could answer: why had he only just noticed how attractive Rosie was? He was confused, anxious. He thought he had better leave before he said the wrong thing, or worse, did the wrong thing.

They parted on good terms. Tom left two tickets for the press night on the kitchen worktop, and after putting on his coat he stood in front of Rosie by the door. He opened his arms.

‘May I?’

How could she refuse? There had been days, dark, difficult days when Rosie would have sold her soul for one of Tom’s hugs. Even now, despite the pain of the situation, she needed that closeness. She knew that this was all there would ever be between them, but it was much, so very much better than nothing. She surrendered to the sensual joy of it: the strength of his arms enfolding her; his scent enveloping her; the rough stubble of his cheek against her lips as she kissed him softly. This was the first time he had held her since that night – since he had discovered her true feelings – but it was as warm and affectionate as ever. Maybe everything was going to go back to how it had been.

Tom held Rosie tightly, knowing that was what she needed. He closed his eyes and relished the moment. Her hair smelled of orange blossom, and her body felt good against his. It felt different to him, this hug, but not because he knew Rosie was in love with him. It felt different because this time he was aware that - in a way he had never been before with her – this was a woman in his arms. He had come looking for an answer from her, or hoping for one. He was leaving without that, for now at least, and carrying more questions than ever. 


	9. I've Got You Under My Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d sacrifice anything, come what may  
> For the sake of having you near  
> In spite of a warning voice  
> That comes in the night  
> And repeats, repeats in my ear  
> ‘Don’t you know little fool, you never can win?’

Monday dawned dark, dank and miserable. Rosie had the day off, so she took herself to the gym. She had missed her regular visits the week before, and felt in need of some cleansing exercise. Hating the wall of mirrors, she preferred to stare at the console of the machine she happened to be using, and chose podcasts over music for the most part: more distracting, meaning she spent less time looking at her body. She hated the place in some ways, but she always felt better after a session, and as the years went on it seemed more necessary than ever. She had to be fit to sing, and without singing she believed sincerely she would have gone mad a while back.

At work the next day Rosie was more content than she had been for a long time. She felt she had come to a decision about Tom: she would continue their friendship. It wasn’t difficult, in the end. Despite the pain her unrequited love for him caused, she was unable to contemplate any other choice; he had asked her to, told her that he needed her in his life. She loved him - how could she do otherwise? And, in truth, the very suggestion of losing him cut into her like a knife. It would have been the death of her.

The shop was peaceful. She wandered the stacks with a duster, inspecting the stock and occasionally perusing a volume. Here, a Baudelaire:

**_I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror…_ **

There, a modern masterpiece by Kazuo Ishiguro:

**_There is certainly a satisfaction to be gained in coming to terms with the mistakes one has made._ **

Books, poetry, words; they were an endless comfort, a source of inspiration, a companion in the worst of times. Returning to her seat behind the sales desk and without a single client in the shop, Rosie picked up the paperback there: _The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd_

**_It is the peculiar nature of the world to go on spinning no matter what sort of heartbreak is happening…_ **

_It was the worst time she could remember up until then. 2012: Tom’s career was flying: he was a star, a global phenomenon. One look at what you got if you googled him told you that. But for Rosie it was the most painful endurance test. She felt angry: she had loved him for nearly ten years. How dare these Joanie-come-latelies claim to have had their lives ruined, their hearts broken? Mind you, she sympathised with the desperation she saw in some of the posts. Lord knows, she had been there! And at least she actually had him in her life, after a fashion. He had been working so much that they had barely seen each other in the last year or so; nevertheless he emailed and texted as often as ever, sending her messages and photos from his promo-tours and getting her tickets for Alan Carr when he was a guest._

_But most of all, she missed him; his physical presence. She missed having a quiet lunch with him down at Rossi’s trattoria in her break when he was in town. She missed him showing up with pastries from Middle Lane when she had a day off that matched one of his. She missed sitting on the sofa arguing about James Joyce or Samuel Beckett and the Existentialists until 3 am. He was too busy, too famous, too tied up for that stuff now. She looked at the pile of ‘Avengers’ merchandise he had sent her; it made her smile but it hurt. It was no substitute for the living, breathing, talking Tom._

_Rosie knew she had never really had him, at least not in the way her heart and her body needed. But now, with his star on the rise and his face as recognisable as RDJ’s and Chris Hemsworth’s, she was losing that part of him she did have. She threw herself into singing more and more, worrying Jimmy in the process. She knew he was concerned, but he didn’t really understand: if she couldn’t sing it out, release all the pain once a week or so, she would die. She thought about a line from the book she had just read: ‘Sky Burial’, by Xinran._

**_No one likes crying, but tears water our souls._ **

                                    ___________________________

Finally settled in her seat, Jimmy fidgeting like a toddler beside her, Rosie tucked the ticket stubs carefully away in a pocket of her handbag, next to their invites to the reception later. She opened the programme and her stomach flipped at the first picture she saw: Tom in a thin blue cotton t-shirt that hugged his chest, leaving no doubt as to the physical effort he had put in to prepare for this role. Turning the pages idly, she recalled the many times she had waited to see Tom in his latest venture. Butterflies were skittering about inside her, as usual. She looked around at the audience; most but not all were press; you could tell them by their bored expressions. Friends and family were easier to spot: they looked pleased to be there and excited, like her and Jimmy.

She had been reading the play; it wasn’t one she knew, and this would be the first theatrical production she had ever seen. She had enjoyed the movie with Ralph Fiennes, but seeing that meant she knew exactly how the story would end. Tom had hinted that this was a rather bloody production: she was not looking forward to seeing him disgraced, bleeding, and/or dead. If the picture on the posters - the same one as in the centre of the programme - was anything to go by, there would be tears before bedtime. _Nothing new there then._ Even so, Rosie was trying to prepare herself. She wanted to return to the days when she could – more or less – contain her emotions in public. Just seeing him onstage would be overwhelming enough, without him crying and dying in front of her.

In the end, it was Jimmy who had the meltdown. He sobbed audibly when Caius Martius said goodbye to his family, and gasped in horror as he was strung up in the awful, inevitable finale. Somehow, Rosie had found a hitherto untapped well of strength to get her through the performance, but as the audience rose to acclaim the cast, her cheeks were wet. She was so proud of Tom, once again. There seemed to be nothing he could not do; no aspect of the human condition that he could not explore with the help of great writers; no emotion he could not induce in the watcher. Had she not loved him already, the heart-breaking look on his face in the final scene would have done it.

Judging by the snatches of conversation heard as she and Jimmy walked along the cold but mercifully dry pavements to Endell Street for the Press reception, everyone else shared their high opinion of the performance tonight. Jimmy’s arm was through hers as they scurried along.

‘I had no idea he could get that angry. I mean, phew! You wouldn’t wanna be on the receiving end of that, darling.’

‘No Jimmy, you wouldn’t. Better mind your ps and qs around him from now on. Now it’s been unleashed…’

The reception was like others she had been to on the back of Tom’s career: some famous faces, plenty of bored-looking people, a few other nobodies like her, wide-eyed and nervous. The room was noisy; loud voices and raucous laughter echoed off the walls, combining with the sound of champagne corks and clinking glasses. Josie Rourke was in a corner, talking to a group of people, but none of the cast had arrived yet: it would take a while to wash that fake blood off, Rosie assumed.

Tom was anxious. The performance had gone very well, he felt, and there was plenty of back-slapping and high-fiving backstage afterwards, continuing in the minibus that was taking them to the club. But his nerves were not about the play, not this time. He was worried because he would be seeing Rosie - he hoped. He knew she and Jimmy had been in the theatre: he had heard Jimmy, as usual; he had also spotted them during the curtain-calls. He prayed they would come to the reception: he needed to see her, hoped she would have an answer for him. The one he wanted to hear from those lips.  She had asked for time, though; it was probably too soon for her to say what she wanted.  Only four days had passed since they had that conversation, since the morning that he couldn’t get out of his mind. In her flat on Sunday he had seen two things clearly for the first time: that Rosie was a woman, a woman to whom he was physically attracted; and that she could be badly hurt, was already hurt by his blind selfishness. He needed to keep her as a friend, even though he no longer saw her as only that.

There were many obligatory handshakes and hugs with the people who mattered before Tom was free to seek his friends and family out at the party. After spending time with his mother and sister he was finally able to walk over to the quiet, shadowy corner where Rosie and Jimmy were waiting patiently for him. Tom watched her face as he approached, seeing out of the corner of his eye how Jimmy was fixed on Rosie, holding her hand tightly. _He loves her_ , he thought, _even more than I do_.

‘You were amazing, Tom! Scary, roaring like a wild beast! I was frightened.’

She was hugging him now, and her lips brushed against his ear as she whispered the last words as they parted. Tom felt a thrill pass through his body. He gritted his teeth, fighting it.

_Why now?_

He smiled shyly. ‘Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.‘ Rosie laughed at the quotation. ‘Faith, there have been many great men that have flatter’d the people, who ne'er loved them,’ she shot back.

Tom bowed his head in acknowledgement. She had been reading, as usual. He was glad of the exchange to distract from the compliments. He had never quite got to grips with praise; it wasn’t very British to relish it too much.

‘Thanks guys. It was fun. It’s something different, all that rage. It’s been a challenge.’

Rosie smiled; she hooked her arm through his.

‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

He guided her to one of the small rooms off a corridor to one side, used for private dinners. The door was barely closing when he spoke.

‘Have you come to a decision yet?’

Rosie looked surprised. He chided himself. He was so keen to know, so desperate for her to confirm his dearest wish, that his impatience had got the better of him.

A beat’s pause, then she smiled that secret smile, the one that made something stir in his belly. Why was he only seeing this sexiness now, when to act on it would be impossible?

‘Yes.’ He looked at her expectantly, waiting.

She nodded. ‘That’s the answer. Yes.’

He pulled her to him then, his arms squeezing so hard she feared he might squash her. Tom closed his eyes and tried his go-to buzz-kill: thinking about his mother. But thoughts of Rosie intruded; she was so wonderfully close. He was in turmoil. After all these years, _now_ he wanted her? He had never known confusion like it, not since his teens: he loved her as his dear friend; he needed her as a woman.

She pulled away after a minute, puzzled by his embrace. It felt desperate, as if she were a lifebelt in a stormy sea. She looked at him, her hands on those biceps that had Jimmy swooning in the Donmar.

‘I need you to let me process this for a week or two, though.’ He nodded, glad of the time to get his own feelings in order. ‘I expect you’ll be busy anyway.’

‘Most likely. Runs like this tend to be pretty knackering, and if tonight is anything to go by….’ He had an inspiration. ‘Do you know what are you doing at Christmas?’

‘The usual.’ Rosie never went ‘home’: she didn’t get on very well with her mother.

‘Maybe I’ll see you then, if not before.’

He hugged her again, more briefly this time, and they returned to the party. Tom was whisked away to spend the requisite amount of time with the ‘right’ people, and when he tried to find her and Jimmy again, he discovered they had already left. He texted Rosie, and when she looked at the message she smiled.

**_Thanks for saying yes. Tx_ **

Dozing in his cab home, Tom tried to think about something other than how good it had felt to have his arms around Rosie; he was not succeeding. Exhaustion was creeping over him, and when he finally reached his bed, his last thoughts were not of Rome or Corioles, but of a dark-haired bookseller who was lying in her own bed across North London, thinking of him.


	10. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let your heart be light  
> Next year all our worries  
> Will be out of sight  
> Faithful friends who are dear to us  
> Will be near to us once more

Despite all her attempts to ignore it, Christmas arrived for Rosie along with everyone else. The shop was only marginally busier than usual; their clientele tended towards the North London-intellectual/dusty academic and such people are no more enamoured of the commercialised festival than her. Online sales, on the other hand, spiked as they always had. They sold through another, world-wide clearing site as well as on their own, and Rosie was packaging books – including those Wells first editions – to send to the US, China and many other places. With the rush of orders and the extra gigs _The Thieving Magpies_ had she was occupied most evenings, just as Tom was.

Over the weekend before Christmas the band had dates on successive nights, and had a spot in the running Christmas concert on the esplanade outside the Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank. They only had a handful of festive numbers in their repertoire, so the fifteen-minute slot on Sunday morning was ideal. They were following a school choir and preceding a brass band, Jimmy announced, peering at his laptop one rare evening they were in the flat together. It was a punishing schedule for people with other jobs and lives, but they all loved it, and it certainly got even the most Grinch-like of them in the party mood.

The worst of the panic was over at the shop by the time Rosie was preparing for the Friday night gig at _The Hind Quarters._ As she had been doing every night since she last saw him, she glanced at her watch to locate Tom. Depending on the time she would think of him in his dressing-room, or preparing to run on stage, climbing that massive ladder in a fury or resting in preparation for the next onslaught. He had been in touch with her in his usual ways, texts and emails. She was on high-alert for any change in his tone – signs of awkwardness or discomfort – but there didn’t appear to be any, except perhaps one. She read and re-read what he wrote, and felt there was a minor change. She struggled to put a name to it, but he seemed more… affectionate, for want of a better term.  Not that she was complaining, but it bothered her a little. She hoped he wasn’t humouring her.

‘I think I’ve got it, Mark’

Tom’s co-star looked up from his phone as they passed in the corridor.

‘Oh shit, really?’

Tom nodded. He had woken up that morning with a scratchy throat and he could feel the tendrils of pain in his joints and back muscles that always accompanied a viral infection. He knew he looked rough, his mirror testified to that, Red-rimmed eyes in a pale face looked back at him as he sat in his dressing-room, opening his post. Whatever this was, it was doing the rounds of the whole cast; it was to be expected. An intense production in December was bound to have some bug lay a few people low at some point, and Tom was sure he could continue - as long as his voice held out.

He checked his phone; _The Thieving Magpies_ had a gig in Crouch End tonight, and he had texted Rosie to wish her all the best. As he looked, a reply popped up.

**_< U 2 Rx>_ **

Her usual self, he thought, smiling. Despite his fears, it seemed that Rosie was coping with the change between them. But Tom was less sure about himself. He thought he had come to terms with the fact that she was in love with him and had been for ten years. He had spent a great deal of time over the last few weeks thinking about those years, and all the missed opportunities, all the times he could have spotted what was going on. He was furious. He prided himself on his observational skills, on his ability to read people and to empathise. How had he missed this most important of facts about someone so dear to him? But, annoying though that oversight was, it was not what was haunting his dreams.

Scrolling through the pictures on his phone he found a favourite: Rosie, Jimmy and him in a car on the London Eye. They were all gurning at the camera, the glittering skyline of the night-time city behind them. Even though she was pulling a face Tom could see how beautiful she was. He seemed to be looking with fresh eyes now. Was that why he couldn’t stop thinking about her body, her hair, her lips, because he knew she was in love with him? Had learning her secret changed how he saw her _that much_?

_‘Do you want everything on it?’_

_Rosie was shouting up from his kitchen where she was preparing her famous home-made pizzas for them._

_‘What’s ‘everything’?’_

_‘Tomato, cheese, ham, spicy sausage, peppers and aubergine.’_

_Tom grinned. She was a fantastic cook. She was also making fresh popcorn, because tonight was one of their movie-marathons: it was ‘Back to the Future’ this time. He ran down the stairs three at a time, sticking his head around the door and making her jump._

_‘Yes please. With double cheese.’_

_‘Pig. Sweet or salt popcorn?’ She laughed. ‘Do I need to ask?’_

_‘Nope. I’ll take the beers up, shall I?’_

_Even in the midst of this, his ‘annus mirabilis’ of 2010, Tom made time for these nights with friends. He needed them, and they nurtured the friendships he valued. Without Rosie, he felt, he would have been much poorer, as an actor and as a man, and the fun they had together nourished his soul. They both knew these films so well they recited the dialogue, but it mattered little; if anything, that was the point. They did the same thing with the Indiana Jones movies, or ‘The Jungle Book’, or ‘Blackadder’. That was the whole point: the pizza, the popcorn, the beer and the movies were a comfort blanket for them both._

_They often fell asleep - as they used to with Jimmy at the flat - together on the sofa. Rosie staying over was part of the pattern, and they sometimes stayed like that all night, waking with stiff necks and aching limbs from the contorted positions they had ended up in. Not once did it occur to Tom that Rosie had wriggled into the corner because she was trying to avoid too much contact; that she needed to in order to retain her sanity. So adept was she at hiding it that he never guessed how she cried in the shower in the morning, pulling at her own hair with frustration._

_If he had guessed how she felt about him, he might have seen how she held onto him a fraction of a second longer than necessary when they hugged as she arrived; how, when they sat next to one another, she held her head just close enough to his to smell his fragrance; how she often spent large parts of the movie looking at him instead of the screen, just watching his eyes and mouth. He might have noticed how she shivered when he touched her sometimes; how she always made sure her hair looked good when she was in his company; how she never changed her perfume after the day he expressed a liking for it._

_But he didn’t know, not then. He saw only his friend who teased and joked with and challenged him constantly; the person he turned to for advice when he wanted fresh eyes on a problem; the wise soul he looked to for counsel when a relationship went south or when he was having trouble getting under the skin of a character. Rosie knew that was her role in his life and she accepted it, believing that was the most she could hope for. She loved his mind above all, and at that level they meshed so well it was almost like a marriage, so in tune were they. But in her dreams he loved all of her._

There was a good crowd in _The Hind Quarters_ that night, the regulars plus an injection of Christmas revellers who livened up the atmosphere no end. Rosie poured her heart out as usual, and she saw a couple of the girls in the front dabbing at their eyes as took her bows after _Only Love Can Hurt Like This._ She felt buoyed up by the enthusiasm filling the room; everyone was on top form, despite – or perhaps because of - the number of performances they had given in the last two weeks. Rosie tried not to think about what Tom had said about seeing each other at Christmas. She didn’t think he would have time for her: he only had a few days off and no doubt he was expected to spend those with his family.

She envied him. Her parents were divorced like his, but she had not seen her father since he left. Last she heard he had emigrated to Australia, and Rosie and her mother were not close. As the only child she had been left to pick up the pieces after the divorce, growing up a little too fast as she coped with a distraught remaining parent. Even before that she and her mother hadn’t got along. While Rosie was a cerebral child, a music-loving avid reader, her mother was more practical and threw herself into her job as a school cook. She could never understand why her daughter wanted to spend all day in her room when the sun was shining. There was no outright hostility, just a degree of mutual misunderstanding.

When Rosie left for university she knew she wouldn’t be returning, and took with her as many of her belongings as she could. Looking back after over twenty years, she saw that she had inherited her love of and aptitude for cooking from her mother, but although she didn’t hate her by any means, she had no desire to spend time in her company. She had never made any attempt to understand her daughter, something that Rosie found hard to forgive. Even Tom’s father, who actively disapproved of his career choice at first, did at least make an effort to meet him half-way.

As a result of her situation and poor Jimmy’s total estrangement from his fundamentalist Christian family, they would be spending the holidays together as they had for as long as they had known each other. This year Larry was coming too, which Rosie was pleased about. It was long past the time for Jimmy to settle down; he needed some stability. She was cooking guinea fowl, she had decided. They were hardly a traditional family, so why eat a traditional meal? In fact, over time they had become deliberately eclectic. One year they had tapas, making the day one long eating experience; another time they had chosen all of their favourite foods, which made for an odd combination of Japanese and Italian. They always had a laugh, heckling the Queen after lunch and spending the evening playing the noisiest charades ever.

The set finished with a run of festive numbers and _The Thieving Magpies_ left the stage to a tumultuous applause. The weekend had got off to a great start. Rosie looked at her watch; he’d be changing or possibly out signing programmes at the stage door by now. She checked Twitter. The last few days she had seen some photos of a very tired-looking Tom. She was worried about him; the role was demanding, and he hadn’t had a proper break from work for months. He was fit and young, but when you push yourself as hard as he did something has to give at some point, sooner or later.

But, as she reminded herself, he wasn’t hers to worry about. She was sure that Diana and Emma would take care of him over the break, and that was comforting. As she and Jimmy wended their way homewards, she wondered when she would get a chance to give Tom his gift. It had come into the shop months ago, part of a collection. As soon as she saw it she knew she had to get it for him: it was a beautiful edition of the collected poetry of TS Eliot. She had found some lovely wrapping paper too. As always with his presents, she had put as much thought and love into it as she did for all others combined, Jimmy excepted.

By the time he got home that night, Tom knew for sure he had the lurgy. His voice was gone, but that had happened before so he wasn’t too worried. It would probably be back in the morning; he hoped so, anyway because he had two shows to do. He took himself to bed with hot whisky and lemon to wash down the paracetamol. He felt like a limp rag as he slid between the sheets, the cool cotton both painful and soothing on his burning skin. He gritted his teeth as he thought about the following week. He was determined that Rosie and he would have a movie night together on Boxing Day, come what may, but he guessed he would have trouble escaping from his mother’s grasp if he was still unwell. He dropped off almost immediately, and as he slept fitfully, he dreamed of pizza and brown eyes.


	11. I Need My Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I need my girl…  
> I know I was a lot of things  
> But I am good, and I am grounded…  
> I keep feeling smaller and smaller  
> I need my girl

‘Hi.’ The croak was barely audible.

‘Tom? Is that you? You sound awful!’

Rosie heard Diana’s voice in the background. ‘He is really not at all well, Rosie. Talk some sense into him, please. He insists on going home today.’

Rosie rolled her eyes. There was some rustling and then she heard Tom’s mother’s voice speaking directly into the phone. ‘He says he has to go home, but I’m only letting him if you promise to be there. He needs looking after. I know you will make sure he eats and takes his tablets.’ Rosie smiled; of course she would be there: he had invited her days ago. She reassured Diana that she would do just that. It seemed that Tom had spent most of his time in Suffolk asleep, and that he was off his food – always an alarming sign for the mothers of sons, and all the more so in Tom’s case.

It was agreed that Emma would collect Rosie on the way and drop them both off at Tom’s house. She had already packed her overnight bag and she went into the kitchen to assemble the groceries for dinner and finish making dessert. She could never be sure he would have anything she needed for a recipe; his cupboards could be full or bare, his fridge full of spinach, salad and juice, or only cake and chocolate, depending on his mood. When he rang on Monday to invite her for a movie night he had asked her to cook him his favourite Italian foods and so she would. Whether he would feel like eating them was another matter.

A few hours later she sat by the window watching for Emma’s car.  She had dressed with care: a warm thigh-length dress over leggings. Comfortable, practical, but she knew she looked good. The dress hugged her hour-glass figure and the red print suited her. Despite all that had happened, she still felt compelled to look good for him. She had packed her best pyjamas and jeans and a warm jumper for the next day, in case they went for a walk. Meticulous in all things, she had planned it all days earlier.

Rosie was alone in the flat; Jimmy was at work, of course; it was Boxing Day. The sales had started and she was not sorry to be missing his return later, no doubt seething with impotent rage and wild-eyed with tiredness. She looked out at the street, still littered with the debris from the storms a few days earlier. Ragged piles of twigs and leaves, punctuated here and there by larger branch fragments, spotted and striped with the silt and sandy wash-off that the torrential rain had stolen from gardens and the park. She waited.

Not for a moment had it occurred to her to decline Tom’s invitation. She had endured so many of these nights, and the joy they gave her easily outweighed the pain, excruciating though it was at times. She knew he was ill; exhausted, he was a sitting duck for any passing virus and, most important, he had said he needed her, that he needed this.  She hoped that this return to routine, to their regular way of being with each other would make it easier for them both to put the events of the last month or so behind them. Suddenly inspired, Rosie leapt up and took her _Fast Show_ box set off the shelf, shoving it into the carrier bag by the door. A good laugh might be just the medicine for him. They could have one of their catch-phrase-offs. _Even better than that…_

Watching the green fields of Essex gradually giving way to the outer-London sprawl of houses and parades of shops, Tom felt his stomach beginning to tingle. Movie night with Rosie, and she was cooking Italian for him! He hoped he would be able to do it more justice than his mother’s Christmas lunch yesterday; he had only picked at his plate, and even declined a portion of pudding. That had convinced Diana he was really poorly. Closing his eyes for a moment he saw Rosie’s face as she sang that Paloma Faith song, the one about lying; he remembered how she had looked right at him. The memory of the way he had felt at that moment made his stomach flip: it was as if the floor had been washed away from under his feet. Looking back on it now, he realised that was the moment he began to see Rosie. Really see her. A tingle ran down his back; he could hardly wait to be with her again.

Emma had kept fairly quiet on the journey, unusually so for her. She knew he had a headache, but that wasn’t the main reason. She was worried about her big brother; he seemed more out of sorts than his flu could explain. She would have to grab a word with Rosie if she could. Tom’s demeanour changed as they passed Gants Hill tube station. He had been dozing or looking listlessly out of the window, but now he sat up and began to take in his surroundings. They left the A12 and cut through Walthamstow, seeing the crowds returning from a hard day’s bargain-hunting. Out of the corner of her eye Emma could see Tom’s eager anticipation of the moment when she turned into Hazelville Road. He was out of the car before she had even stopped.

Rosie opened the door before he reached it. They regarded each other for a moment; Rosie thinking he looked worse than she expected; Tom thinking she looked better than he remembered. She hugged him, stroking his forehead and detecting no fever; she leaned back and examined his face carefully.

‘You look terrible.’

‘Thanks. You look great.’

He really meant it this time, unlike the other times when he had seen only the inner woman, disregarding the outer beauty he now truly appreciated. He tried to help Rosie with her bags but she shoved his hands away. As soon as she had put her stuff in the boot and strapped herself in, they set off for Tom’s house. Emma and she chatted away, as Tom went back – apparently – to his dozing.

Half-an-hour later they were in Tom’s kitchen. Rosie was transferring her goodies to the fridge – which was mostly bare, as she anticipated. She had brought the ingredients for tomato and mozzarella salad and _bucatini all’amatriciana._ She had already made the dessert he had requested: tiramisu. She popped a couple of bottles of pinot grigio in the door. Tom usually had a reasonable cellar, but he had been so busy lately she decided to play it safe.

While he was taking his bags and hers upstairs, Rosie found herself alone with his sister.

‘Tell me Rosie, is something going on with Tom?’

Rosie was in the middle of stashing the parmesan away and she froze for a second. Trying her best to be casual, she resumed her task.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, you know him pretty well, right? Does he seem a bit preoccupied to you?’

Rosie pondered this. He had a lot on his plate, with the play and being ill, and he was learning the script of his upcoming movie. Maybe that was it. He seemed to have been OK about what had happened between the two of them, not really upset; at least, not once she agreed that they could stay friends.

‘Well, I haven’t actually seen him since the press night, Emma. But he seems OK, given the pressure and everything. Why, are you worried?’

‘Not really. Mum was, but mainly about this bug, I think. No, I just wondered if he had said anything to you. I thought perhaps it might be a woman or something.’

Rosie had finished loading the fridge and turned around to face Emma who was looking at her expectantly. She could feel heat rising in her cheeks; was she responsible for his distraction? Had he misled her? Was he unhappy, uncomfortable about her, about them now? Did that mean this was some kind of a swansong for their relationship? The blush that was forming was washed away by that chilling thought and she felt tears stinging her eyes. Before she had a chance to come up with an answer for Emma, she heard Tom’s feet on the stairs.

‘Kettle on yet? Come on girls! I need tea!’ he looked at Rosie, pouting. ‘I thought you were supposed to be looking after me.’

He could tell he had interrupted something, but from the way they were looking at each other, it wasn’t for his ears. Tea was made and after Emma had left, Rosie checked Tom’s medical supplies. He had enough doses of _Lemsip_ and _Nightnurse_ to last until the next afternoon, so she resolved to pop out and replenish them before she went home. When she returned to the sitting room he was snoozing on the sofa so she sat quietly on an armchair and read for a while. The dinner wouldn’t need much preparation (one reason why she had agreed to the menu) and she was happy just to be able to look up and see him across the room, snoring softly.

An hour or so later her Rosie’s phone chimed and Tom stirred. It was a text from Jimmy letting her know he was home.

**_< You OK? How’s the invalid?>_ **

She typed a quick response and looked up to see Tom staring at her. She felt uncomfortable.

‘I’m sorry, that was from Jimmy. Did it wake you?’

‘Not really, I was surfacing anyway. Sorry I fell asleep; it was rude of me, I know.’

‘Not at all. If you need to sleep, feel free. You need rest to get better.’

He laughed a hoarser version of usual ‘eheheheh’, still watching her intently. She looked stunning in the fading light, the twinkle of the Christmas lights reflecting off her shiny hair. He wanted her. Despite feeling like death, he wanted her very badly. But he knew that he couldn’t have her. It would be wrong, cruel, unfair. And above all, he wanted to avoid hurting her any more.

It was going to be a long night for both of them.

After his nap Tom felt a little better; still tired, but he could see light at the end of the tunnel. They exchanged their gifts before they ate. Tom loved the book, as she hoped he would. He seemed close to tears as he looked at it. The parcel he handed to her was small, simply wrapped and light in her hand. She looked questioningly at him but he just nodded in response. Rosie tore the paper carefully and was rendered speechless when she saw the beautiful gold chain and pendant the box contained. It was in the form of a stylised rose, exquisitely made and definitely not cheap. She looked up to see him watching her reaction closely.

‘Do you like it? The rose made me think of you.’

His face was tense, as if he was afraid to hear what she was going to say. Rosie felt an atmosphere in the room that was at once unfamiliar and frightening.

‘It’s beautiful, Tom. It’s too much, but I love it. Thank you, darling.’ She hugged him to her, unable to see the way his eyes closed as he inclined his head a little to touch hers gently. He hadn’t been entirely honest. The jewellery was bespoke, made to his own design; that was why he was so anxious about her response to it. He intended to come clean one day.

Rosie’s dinner was, as usual, delicious. He was able to make a good effort, eating a reasonable amount of each course, relishing the chilli-flavoured pasta sauce which enlivened his taste buds, and saved a little room for some tiramisu, naturally. Rosie grinned when he took his first mouthful and did what she always thought of as his ‘faked orgasm’ thing.

‘Oh my god, that is AMAZING!’

She smiled.

‘Seriously, how do you do it? Do you have a secret ingredient or something?’

‘Well… I did have a long chat with Rosina at _Rossi’s_ once… so now I make my own _pan di spagna_ , and I always use really good espresso, and the marsala they sell there. So not a secret, per se…’

So typical of her, Tom thought. Research, attention to detail, a desire for perfection.

‘Take pains, be perfect.’

‘Indeed. You should know. Now, coffee or tea?’

After some debate, they had agreed on a Jimmy Stewart marathon, starting with _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , of course. They both dropped off to sleep at some point during _Harvey,_ easily done on Tom’s massive sofa. It had one end – the end where Rosie was – with a chaise-longue arrangement so she could stretch full length, and a matching footstool which Tom had his feet on. He woke up to see the TV screen was black and Rosie’s head resting on him. At some point his arm had gone around her, and she was resting against the top of his chest. He turned his head and inhaled that familiar scent of orange-blossom. Suddenly aware of her breathing, he felt the pressure against his ribs shifting with each inhalation. He allowed his lips to brush the top of her head, barely in contact. That was a mistake. Trying to ignore the rush of blood to his groin he attempted to divert his thoughts.

_I have to move or this will get worse_

But he couldn’t without waking her, and he didn’t really want to. After a few minutes he felt himself falling asleep again.

Rosie woke in the early morning aware of a heavy weight across her body. Feeling tentatively she recognised it as Tom’s arm. She was snuggled up against him and in fact both of his arms were holding her close. That would have been alarming enough, but he was making a whimpering noise. Concentrating she began to make out words – he was talking in his sleep. Most of it was gibberish, but she heard her name more than once. As he said it, he hugged her more tightly, moaning a little. Rosie’s eyes flew open, but she was paralysed. Half of her wanted to get away from him, it was too much to handle, but the other half was elated.

Even if it was only in his dreams, he wanted her.

She remained where she was, trying to fight the urge to caress his side; her right arm was draped over his abdomen and her fingers were touching his t-shirt. He moved a little, squirming as he made little sounds of pleasure. Rosie gritted her teeth, her mind spinning and her heart racing. What did this mean, if anything? It was just a dream, after all. She remembered having sex dreams about people she hated in the past, but _he was saying her name._ She could see his body in the dim light from the lamp in the corner: he was aroused – visibly so - and so was she. But he was asleep, so none of it mattered. She stayed still, holding and being held and listening to him breathing her name in a whimper.

It is possible that nothing would have changed for them; that they might have been able to go back to how they had been for all those years, if Tom’s phone hadn’t pinged a few minutes after Rosie came round. It wasn’t a loud noise, but he must have been teetering on the brink of consciousness at that moment, because he woke up. He turned his head towards Rosie and kissed her hair and caressed her side without thinking. He had been dreaming about making love to her, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to kiss her and hug her to him.

‘Tom?’

He froze. That had been a dream, but this was real, living, _breakable_ Rosie, who was in love with him. Rosie, one of his best friends in the world, certainly one of his most treasured. He felt her arm over him. She had not pulled away after the kiss, which was chaste enough. But he also felt his hard-on, and knew she could see it. He was immobilised by indecision; he waited for her to make the next move, unable to pull back of his own accord.

‘Tom?’ she repeated, this time sitting up a little to look at his face. He lifted his hand to her cheek and brushed the hair back from it. Her eyes were shining in the half-light of the room; he felt her shivering.

‘Are you cold?’

_Idiot._

Rosie shook her head. Her gaze did not waver as her right hand travelled up over his stomach to his chest, making him shiver in his turn. She caressed his pecs then continued up to his neck. Tom held his breath. He wanted her so much, and she wanted him too. But would it be right? Would it be fair? Would this break them?

‘Rosie…’

She stopped his mouth with hers, and he lost the ability to think.

Ten years of pain and heartache and sleepless nights and crying jags and frustrated drink-fuelled dreams gushed out of Rosie in that kiss. It was passionate to the point of desperation; she wanted to absorb him. A tiny voice in the back of her head was shouting at her to stop now before you regret it, but a chorus of louder, nearer ones were screaming at her to do it, take this chance, it will be the only one you get and you need this to live through the rest of your lonely life.


	12. Sign Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All alone with you makes the butterflies in me arise  
> Slowly we make love  
> And the earth rotates to our dictates  
> Slowly we make love…

His soft curls between her fingers, the taste of him in her mouth, the feel of his hardening cock under her leg; the sound of his moans echoing through her.

Rosie was floating.

Dreaming.

_This is really happening._

The sandpaper roughness of his cheek on her neck, the light nip of his teeth on her skin; his hand under her dress, exploring.

_This is really happening._

She pressed herself harder against him; he moaned louder. She heard another noise, realised it was her own whimpering. She came back to herself for a split-second: did she really want this, knowing he could never be hers? His lips brushed the top of her breast through the thin fabric of her dress and her body made the decision for her: she pulled his hair lightly, pressed him against her. His hands came up to her face and he paused and pulled back, panting, pupils blown with lust.

‘Is this what you want, Rosie?’

‘Oh god, yes.’

‘I can’t promise you anything, you know…’

‘I know.’

Again she cut him off with a kiss. Of course she knew he loved her, but he wasn’t _in love._ She would never have him, never be his significant other. She knew too that this would change their relationship, maybe break it forever. But she had wanted this, dreamed of it, fantasised about it for ten years.

And now, it was really happening. Stopping was the last thing she wanted to do.

This time it was Tom’s long fingers that tangled in her hair as he angled her head how he wanted it, his other hand travelling back down to her leg as she straddled him. His lips made their way down the pale column of her neck, past the curve of her collar bones – kissing the little mole there - to her cleavage, inhaling the fragrance of her skin as he nuzzled the soft flesh of her bosom. It felt as good as he had imagined it would; she tasted better than he had dreamed. The muscles of her back quivered as his fingers brushed over them, caressing the curves he had suddenly noticed only a few weeks ago.

Tom’s head was spinning. He couldn’t remember a time when he had wanted a woman more. She was beautiful. She smelt so good; she tasted of sex; her body fitted into his hands perfectly. Why had it taken him so long to see her this way? Was it because she was older than him? When he first met her he thought she was the epitome of sophisticated, intelligent and elegant femininity; he was intimidated. Then they became friends and he stopped seeing her in that way. Now he was ten years older and seven years didn’t seem a big difference in age between them; and – finally - he had woken up – in every way. He moved lower, feeling her nipples harden under his lips, and he could wait no longer. Reaching down he lifted her dress up and over her head; he buried his face between her ample breasts.

Rosie was trying to memorise every sensation. She was sure this would be a unique experience for her, and she wanted to make the most of it. Her hands in his hair, nails just scratching his scalp lightly; her rounded belly against his flat, firm one; the light stubble on his chin rough against the soft skin of her bosom; his tongue on her nipple, learning every contour; this fingers tracing the outline of her other breast; the scent of him: his cologne, red wine, sweat; the sounds he made: whimpering, breathing her name, moaning when they kissed or when she shifted against his erection.

Tears stung her eyes. It all felt so much better than she had ever, could ever have imagined it. She loved this man; he was her reason for living, and she had almost given up all remaining hope of this ever happening. Now he was touching her, kissing her, responding to her. And it felt so right.

Whatever the cost, she could not stop.

Tom’s long fingers found the catch of her bra and released her from it. Her breasts and her mouth had been the focus of his nights for weeks; now he possessed them, and he wanted it to last. But he had to taste her. He turned them both and leaned Rosie back, supporting her with his arms, his strength renewed. She lay against the cushions and he kissed her tenderly. Her face was sad as she looked back at him and he knew: she would be gone, probably forever, in the morning. He would protest, beg even, but Rosie would do what she had to, he knew her well enough to be certain of that.

But still he could not stop.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her leggings and panties, and she lifted up for him. He kissed her again as he pulled them off her, his mouth acting less gently, more passionately this time. Almost out of his mind with lust, he wanted to devour her. He sucked on her tongue; she groaned and clutched at his body, grabbing handfuls of his t-shirt. He pulled away long enough to remove it and Rosie ran her hands across the smooth skin and hard muscle of his chest and abdomen, feeling the shapes and textures of him. She reached up and ran her tongue over his nipples, making him gasp her name. She had a short-cut to his deepest desires; at that moment she was his deepest desire.

Rosie lay back and watched as Tom looked at her body, now she was bare before him. Grateful for the dim lighting, she followed his eyes as they ran over her, taking in the swells and curves. She was not like the skinny actresses he worked with; she ate and drank and sat around reading too much. She was sure he was disgusted by her. She was wrong.

‘You are so beautiful, my darling girl.’

The tears flowed down her cheeks as she shook her head. Tom kissed them away; he meant it. He ran his fingertips down from her face, over her neck, following the line of her clavicles and down to the skin between those wonderful breasts. Each hand ran over one, leaving goose pimples in their wake. He caressed the soft swell of her belly and teased the upper edge of the hair below it. He paused in his worship to remove his joggers. His arousal was obvious, huge.

‘See what you do to me, Rosie?’ He gazed at her lovely face. ‘Why has it taken me so long? I am so sorry…’

‘Shshsh…’

Then his lips met hers again before following his hands down to her sex. The scent of her arousal was driving him wild, and when he reached her mound he had stop to regain his composure before continuing. Once he had steadied himself he placed a soft kiss on her clitoris, which was already erect, awaiting his touch. Rosie’s eyes closed; Tom’s hands on her thighs, his breath on her vulva – it was too much: sensory overload. She felt sure she would orgasm if he touched her again. His dark, husky ‘Hmmmm’ sent her reeling, and then his mouth was on her. She arched her back in ecstasy. She wasn’t quite there yet, but it was exquisitely close.

She opened her eyes to see his looking up at her from between her thighs, a smile in them. She was flushed with arousal, her eyes foggy with lust. Those lips he had longed for were full and red from his kisses and now she was writhing and moaning under his tongue.

My Rosie.

He licked her firmly from bottom to top, thrummed the tip of his tongue over her clit. She moaned loudly. He circled around her nub then down to her entrance, teasing it, sucking her lips into his mouth, revelling in the taste of her. Sliding two fingers inside, he pressed and tapped until he found her g-spot. Rosie yelled his name and came, her entire body lifting off the couch as it spasmed against him. Tom stayed where he was; lapping her juices, watching as she came down, then he took her to the edge again. This time she almost passed out and when she came back to herself she was in his arms and he was kissing her forehead.

‘Back with me, darling?’

‘Oh Tom, that was…’

‘I know, but we’re not finished yet.’

Rosie could feel his hardness under her thigh. He shuffled to the edge of the seat, encouraging her to stand on shaky legs. He followed suit, took her hand and led her up to his bedroom. She admired his body as they climbed the stairs; the faint light from the street outside sending shadows across his long legs and shapely arse. As they entered the room he caught her around the waist and leaned down to kiss her mouth once more. His kisses were everything she had dreamed of, never expected to know. She felt the moist tip of his cock against her belly, knew what he wanted, wanted it too. She stepped backwards until she reached the bed, lying down without breaking the kiss.

Once again, his hands traced those curves, taking in all the shapes of her, the generous rises and falls, the womanly reality of her. Why had it taken so much heartache for her, and a chance happening for him to reach this epiphany?

What a waste.

But he wasn’t in love, was he? What a mess this was, how confused he felt, how easily he had allowed his lust to take over.

But for now, his body needed her, needed to be inside her, to fill her. She reached her hands around his back, guiding him between her legs. He took a moment to calm down: he was close to coming after the dream and then the reality of Rosie. Now she was in his bed and nerves bubbled up: he had to make this good. This was a one-time-only deal, he was sure. He looked at her lovely face, a smile on her lips but sad, such sad eyes. He kissed her face all over, ending on her lips. He was as tender as he could ever remember being. This was Rosie, after all, and she loved him. He saw tears in those beautiful brown eyes again and hesitated, but she took hold of him and made her wishes clear.

Tom locked his gaze with hers as he slid into her, feeling her velvet softness enveloping him, clutching at him. He had to pause once he was fully-sheathed; she felt so good around him, He kissed her mouth, whispered her name. She ran her hands over his back, squeezed his backside, breathed his name into his ear with the lightest of kisses. Tom buried his face in the crook of her neck, fighting the urge to fuck her hard and fast as his body was demanding. Part of him felt guilt; another part was determined to be gentle and loving.

Rosie felt the tension in him, the conflict. She assumed he was having second thoughts, but then he regained control and began to move, slowly, gently, sensually. He rolled his hips and twisted, reaching every part of her, making her cry out and groan. He ran his lips over her neck and her shoulders, tasting and teasing, while she lifted her hips to meet him and caressed the firm planes of his back and sides. Occasionally her hands ran up his neck and into his hair, tugging on the soft curls, her thumbs reaching over to trace the contours of his cheekbones and jaw: all the parts of him she had longed to touch she did. Her feet and calves rubbed over his thighs as he thrust steadily but powerfully into her, her hands running over the firm muscles of his arse and they flexed and quivered under her touch.

The coil in her belly began to swell again and he sensed it, speeding up his movements and shifting her pelvis with his large hands. Soon he was pounding fast and hard and Rosie felt her orgasm coming, then it broke over her like a wave. She clung to him as he continued to drive his hips, harder, less rhythmically until he too was over the edge. He bucked erratically until it was over, falling panting onto her as she kissed his neck, saying her name over and over.

Tom stayed there, on top of her for several minutes, relishing the feel of her body against his, around his, until he slipped out. He was drained; he had found reserves of energy to make love to Rosie, but now he remembered how tired he was. He reached over and pulled the covers across them both, wrapping his arms around to pull her into his embrace. He pressed his lips to her neck and she wriggled sensually against him. He fell asleep fast, her words the last thing he heard as he squeezed her hand in his and kissed her ear.

‘I love you Tom.’

The morning was grey and as he woke rain was tapping on the window. He reached for Rosie, but she was gone. He sat up, still feeling drained but better, called her name. Silence. He stood, went to pee, put a gown on and looked downstairs. He found her in the kitchen, making toast, fully dressed. He slid his arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head.

‘Morning.’

‘Hi. Coffee or tea?’

Tom put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face him. He could see she had been crying, but he didn’t know what to say. He loved her, the sex was great, better than any he could remember, he wanted more, but… He went to kiss her but she pulled away.

‘Please don’t. I know how you feel, Tom. I understand. I never expected anything from you; you have never lied to me. So please don’t pretend now.’

He stood there looking at her for a moment, trying to work out what he did feel. He wanted her, but he wasn’t _in love,_ right? He loved her _as a friend_ , right? But he wasn’t sure this morning, he didn’t seem able to categorise what he felt for her anymore. He did know that he didn’t want this to be the only time he made love to Rosie, and he most definitely did not want her to leave his house in tears.

‘I’m not…  I’m NOT pretending. Please Rosie,’ he reached for her again, but she turned away, ‘please. I don’t want to lose you, you know that.’

She stood silent and unmoving, looking blindly at the window. Could they continue after this? He said that now, but how would he feel after a few days, once he realises what has happened? Could she continue to see him, be friends? She didn’t know, but she was certain she needed to leave, to go home and process last night.

‘I’ll pop to Boots after breakfast, stock up on cold remedies for you, but then I have to go home. The shop’s opening tomorrow and we have a gig on Saturday.’ She turned to look at him, barely trusting herself to meet his eye. ‘You’ve got to get back to work too, right?’

Tom nodded reluctantly. It all made sense, like most things she said, but he felt she was hiding something. Resolving to be patient with her, he thought it would probably be wise to let her go, for today at least. When she had replenished his medicine cabinet and cleared up the breakfast things he let her pack her bag and get ready to go.

‘I can drive you.’

‘There’s no need, Tom.’

‘I want to, please.’

She allowed it, sitting quietly next to him in his new Jag, part of his payment for the ads he was doing. It was sleek, comfortable, sexy; Tom all over. The world seemed different to her this morning, as if it had shifted on its axis. She watched the crowds, frowning. People were going about their business as if nothing had happened; didn’t they know that everything had changed? When they reached the flat she jumped out and tried to get her bag from the boot without him, but Tom was having none of it. He caught her arm as she reached in to pick her things up and pulled her against him.

‘Rosie. I love you. This won’t change anything.’

‘Ah but Tom, that’s exactly the problem. You see, it’s changed everything for me.’

He realised too late what a terrible choice of words he had made.

‘I didn’t mean that it wasn’t… that I didn’t…’

She pressed a finger to his lips.

‘It’s alright, my love. I understand. I’ll see you soon.’

She meant nothing of the sort, biting back a sob as she walked away from him as he stood helpless, berating his own stupidity. She opened the door, stepped through, closing it behind her. Tom stood looking at it for several minutes, unsure what to do; finally he got back in his car and drove home.


	13. I Can't Make You Love Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turn down the light, turn down the bed  
> Turn down these voices inside my head  
> Lay down with me, tell me no lies  
> Just hold me close, don’t patronise me

‘Rosie?’

The flat was in darkness but Jimmy couldn’t open the door. There was something heavy in the way. He shoved a little harder and heard a groan; the doorstop spoke.

‘Jim? That you?’ it mumbled.

‘Rosie? What are you doing down there? Are you OK?’

She scrambled to her feet, allowing him to come in. He put the light on and she stood, dazed, squinting at him.

‘How long have you been there?’ He looked into her face. ‘What on earth has happened?’

She couldn’t speak, just collapsed against her dear friend. He guided her to the sitting room and sat her down on the sofa, after taking her coat off. He held her as she sobbed, squeezing her arm gently every so often, purely to remind her he was there. When she began to quieten he eased his hold.

‘Tea? Vodka?’

She nodded, and unsure which she wanted he fetched both. Jimmy had seen Rosie in a bad way a few times since that night at the end of November, but this was of a different order. She was white-faced, red-eyed and almost catatonic. He had advised her against the movie night, and it seems he was right; something catastrophic had obviously occurred.

‘What happened, love?’

Rosie looked at him. She couldn’t say the words, because however she put it, it would be either cheapened or over-stated: _‘we had sex’_ – too cold; _‘we made love’_ – too romantic; _‘we fucked’_ – too crude. In the end she didn’t have to say anything, because Jimmy, clever, intuitive, perceptive Jimmy guessed anyway.

‘Oh Rosie, my darling girl. What did he say this morning?’

‘Oh he was lovely, sweet, kind – you know, normal Tom. But he isn’t in love with me, and now that we’ve… well, we can’t ever go back to how we were again, can we?’

This prompted more sobs, deep, racking ones that seemed to come from her bones, and Jimmy wrapped her in his long arms and rocked gently. He was troubled. It didn’t feel right: it wasn’t like Tom to take advantage of someone, and Jimmy knew he loved Rosie dearly. He wouldn’t hurt her on purpose, surely? He needed to talk to Tom and resolved to do so as soon as he could. Usually he kept out of other peoples’ business, but this was bad.

Really bad.

After he got back from Crouch End Tom had spent the rest of Friday pounding the pavements, trying to learn lines for _Crimson Peak._ It was a good distraction, filling his thoughts and preventing him from fretting about Rosie. He had circumnavigated Regents Park twice, and now he was lying, shattered, on the sofa.

Which smelled of Rosie and sex.

Tears pricked at his eyes. Her face and the words she had said to him that morning were branded onto his heart.

… _it’s changed everything for me_

Feeling helpless and angry with himself, he stood, and despite his tiredness began to pace the room, soon finding that too restricting and deciding to wander the house. He kept trying to pin down what he felt; it was as if his own feelings were deliberately evading him, constantly dancing just beyond his reach. He loved Rosie; that was certain. He wanted her; no brainer. She was gorgeous, sexy, clever, everything… He cared about her; so much so that the last thing he wanted was to hurt her, but he had. And he hated himself for it.

He looked at his watch: it was 10 o’clock and he had to perform tomorrow. His voice was better but he needed to rest his body. He doubted his brain would switch off, so he went to find the cold remedies Rosie had bought; one of those had something in it to help you sleep. Grimacing, he swallowed a dose straight from the bottle. As he got into bed he realised the sheets still carried her fragrance and the reminders of what happened just that morning, only hours ago. He clutched the pillow to his face and breathed deeply.

‘Rosie, my love.’

He lay there for a long time, waiting for the snake oil to work, eventually feeling heaviness overcoming him. As he fell off the cliff into the blackness, he whispered something his heart had been holding on to for nearly twenty-four hours:

‘I love you too.’

 

Jimmy had yet another sleepless night. He wanted to find out what was going on with Tom, but he knew he had no right to ask, not really. He thought about Rosie, in the room next to him, probably wide awake as well. He had to do something; she was in a terrible state. Apparently she had been sitting on the doormat for hours, ever since she got home. His beloved friend was teetering on the edge. She had got what she had always wanted - at least in part - but at a terrible cost. What Jimmy couldn’t get his head around was that Tom had done this. It felt wrong, out of character; he was a kind man, not a user. And he adored Rosie; Jimmy was sure there was more to this than a pity fuck.

As soon as his alarm went off, he texted Tom:

**_< I need to see you asap J>_ **

By the time he was back from the bathroom there was a reply; it seemed sleep was evading all three of them:

**_< I’m working tonight. Can we meet in your lunch break? T>_ **

They arranged to have lunch at a Chinese restaurant that Jimmy loved. It was a real hole-in-the-wall kind of a place, and not even remotely fashionable. It was guaranteed to be quiet, and it was handy for Jimmy’s workplace. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting Tom again, at having to tackle the matter at hand, but he had no choice.

They met early, before twelve, to suit their different schedules, and Tom had trouble meeting Jimmy’s gaze as he made his way to the table at the rear of the tiny dining room. Their only companions were two ancient Chinese ladies who were shovelling noodles in at an impressive rate. They were always there, according to Jimmy, and one reason he kept coming back. That and the fabulous food at an amazingly low price – he prided himself on knowing the best-value eateries in the capital.

‘Look Jimmy, I know what you’re going to say, and I know it was wrong. But you weren’t there, OK?’

‘I’m not judging you or Rosie, Tom – heavens knows, I have no room to talk! But _Rosie?_ You know how she feels about you; you know how bad she was hurting, even before this…’

Tom put his hands up. ‘Yes. She made the first move; I should have stopped it there, but Jimmy…’ He looked around the mostly-empty room, trying to find the words. ‘I don’t really know how I feel about her now. I’m really confused. She is so…’ He was embarrassed to feel tears on his cheek. Jimmy leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘Are you in love with her, Tom?’

His companion looked into his eyes for a moment, then lowered his gaze. ‘I don’t know.’

_Oh shit._

‘Since I last spoke to you I’ve had a lot of time to think,’ Tom continued, ‘and I have spent it thinking about Rosie. I see her differently now, since I saw how she feels about me.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘I had stopped seeing her as a woman, Jimmy, but now I see her clearly. And it’s messing with my head, I’ll be honest. She is so beautiful, so sexy, so… she’s _Rosie_. _Fuuuuck.’_

Jimmy took a deep breath. This was worse than he thought. Tom didn’t know how he felt about Rosie; she was heartbroken; believing she had ruined their friendship forever; unable to cope.

_Oh fuuuuck indeed_

‘Well, what do we do, Thomas?’

Tom ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t know, Jimmy. I wish I did.’

Rosie was like a zombie that Saturday. She had not slept at all. Zoning-out on the doormat; it alarmed her. That had never happened to her before; she was always in control, even if sometimes it was _only just_ , but yesterday? Yesterday she had reached some kind of limit and shut down for a bit. She just didn’t know what to do about her feelings; about what had happened; about Tom. She was in a fog now, sitting at the computer but not seeing the screen. Arthur had come down because Lauren had rung him to say she was worried. He put his hand on Rosie’s shoulder and told her, gently but firmly, to go home. Against her better judgement, she did. In over ten years she had only missed a few days’ work, but her brain wasn’t functioning above the most basic level today: sort of _fire bad, tree pretty._

Walking home, still in a daze, she thought about what had happened for the hundredth time. How it felt to be in his arms; his kisses; how gentle and loving he had been; how good it felt. They had crossed that line, and there would be no going back. She had expected to feel something, now it was over. She had thought it would be a form of grief, but instead she simply felt numb; the memory of him, of their lovemaking, was the only thing that seemed real to her now. She could not come to terms with it, because she could not move on. There seemed no point because she felt nothing.

She went home and tried to work out how she was going to sing when she couldn’t feel anything.

Jimmy was back early too, as scheduled, because they had a late-night cabaret slot at the Camden pub. As he put his key in the door he had no idea what he would find. Would Rosie be catatonic again, or a blubbering mess? Would she be able to perform at all? He had already texted Hugh to warn him that they might have a problem as Rosie was ‘under the weather’. As he opened the door to his surprise he smelled cooking; he found her in the kitchen stirring a pot of homemade soup.

‘Hi love. How are you doing?’

‘I’m OK. I thought soup would be good: it’s spicy butternut squash.’

‘Smells great.’ He hesitated. ‘You gonna be OK for tonight?’

He saw Rosie’s shoulders stiffen but she did not turn round. ‘Of course I will,’ she said evenly, ‘why wouldn’t I?’

Jimmy had known her long enough to keep his thoughts on that subject to himself.

At the Donmar, Tom was in his dressing room when his stage mother put her head around the door.

‘Evening darling. I’m going to see your mates later.’

‘My mates?’ Tom was nonplussed.

**‘** _The Thieving Magpies._ They’re doing the late-night cabaret at our local.’ Deborah smiled as his face lit up. ‘Fancy coming?’

Rosie sat stiff and silent in Hugh’s car all the way to Camden. She responded angrily to his enquiry about her health, glaring at Jimmy. The truth was she had no idea if she would be able to sing or not. Physically she was fine, if rather tired, but the emotion she normally employed wasn’t there. She felt like a block of ice. She let her mind drift back to two nights before and the sofa in Tom’s house; if she had to, she could use that. Jimmy watched her surreptitiously; he guessed at the problem. She had been too calm, too still all evening. After all these years of singing her heart out, how was the show going to go with her in this state?

Their set hadn’t started when Deborah, Tom and the others arrived, finding themselves a table not far from the stage but not too obvious so they could enjoy it in peace. Tom’s stomach was churning; he accepted the Jameson’s that was bought for him gladly and downed it in two gulps.

He had to see her. He needed to talk to her.

The MC came onto the stage and the butterflies inside him stepped up their fluttering. He didn’t notice how his companions were staring at him; he was literally on the edge of his seat, deaf and blind to anything but the side of the stage. The man announced the band and extended his arm. Polite applause began as _The Thieving Magpies_ started to sing off-stage, appearing one by one; if he hadn’t heard her voice he would have been panicking until Rosie stepped through the doorway last of all.

Even so Tom’s heart was in his mouth. She _was_ there! He had been so afraid that she might not, that he would not have this chance to speak to her, to show her how he felt. He watched her. Unable to tear his eyes away, he saw her unfocussed stare and knew at once that something was wrong. They were doing a truncated version of their full set tonight, and when _Summertime_ came to an end he held his breath, knowing that _Sign Your Name_ was next _._

It began normally enough, if a little stiffly. Rosie seemed uncommitted to the whistling intro, but her singing sounded OK. In fact, as the song went on, she began to warm up. Fascinated, he saw her whole demeanour change, life visibly flowing into her, her cheeks flushing as her body swayed.

**_All alone with you makes the butterflies in me arise_ **

**_Slowly we make love_ **

**_And the earth rotates to our dictates_ **

**_Slowly we make love…_ **

Then her eyes opened, she scanned the room and the sound died in her throat.

She turned away, coughing to cover the cry of anguish that tried to rise up. She moved to the rear of the stage as the others stopped singing and Hugh asked the audience to bear with them for a moment. Jimmy put his arm around her and spoke quietly.

‘Leave it for tonight. We can manage without you. Go and sit down backstage.’

For once Rosie took his advice and stepped quickly out of the lights and into the dim corridor, finding her way to the tiny but comfortable green room. Hugh gathered the others and they agreed to enact the contingency plan he had texted around earlier.  The set resumed only after Jimmy had stepped off the stage to speak softly but rapidly to Tom, who then followed him, going past the others and into the backstage corridor.

Rosie was sitting on an old armchair when he reached her, staring at the tatty carpet at her feet. She didn’t look up when he stepped into the room, not even when he folded his long legs and crouched down beside her as he took her hand in his.

‘Let me take you home, my love.’

She nodded and Tom dialled the minicab firm he used regularly. Twenty minutes later they were on their way to her flat. She allowed Tom to hold her in the back seat of the car, but she had not spoken to him, not so much as looked into his face. Her muteness continued as they reached her front door and Tom gently took the keys from her and opened it. He sat her down and put the kettle on, returning to join her on that oh-so-familiar lumpy but comfy sofa.

‘Rosie, I am so sorry. I didn’t intend to upset you. I just had to come, once Deborah told me where you’d be.’ He paused, determined to do better with his words this time. ‘I needed to see you.’

She looked at him finally, uncertain what he meant. ‘Do you…’ her voice was croaky, breaking, ‘…are you saying goodbye?’

‘What? No, not at all.’ He stopped again, not knowing how to explain. He heard the kettle click off. ‘Tea?’ She nodded and he strode out to do the honours, glad of a few more minutes’ thinking time. How could he explain what was going on to Rosie when he didn’t understand it himself? Carrying the mugs in he decided to simply tell her what he had been through since that night in _The Hind Quarters._ The time for secrets and silences was over. ‘That night at the pub, well, I was shocked. Not upset or angry – at least not with you. I blame myself for being so stupid. I should have seen what was going on, and I am so sorry, my love.’

‘No, Tom, I never wanted you to…’

‘But I should have, nonetheless. If I had paid you the sort of attention you deserve, I would have.’ Rosie shrugged. He might be right, but she had worked really hard to hide it from everyone. ‘That night, back here, well, I suddenly saw you. Properly, I mean. I’ve been so blind, Rosie. You are beautiful,’ he raised his hand to still her protests, ‘a truly beautiful, lovely, sexy woman. I had been so focussed on your mind, and on being your friend, that somehow I had missed that.’ She was blushing now. All the numbness was gone; she felt like a teenager, giddy. ‘I realised on that Sunday, when I came over here, that I was very attracted to you, but knowing how you felt about me, it would have been wrong, then, because I thought I couldn’t reciprocate…’

He stopped, put his tea down and took her hand in his once more. She looked at their fingers as they entwined, then up into his eyes. Her heart melted at the sight of him.

‘Rosie, the thing is, I don’t know exactly how I feel about you now. You are not just a friend anymore, and not just someone I want to make love to – although I do want to, again. Very much.’ He swallowed. ‘It was…wonderful, amazing, special. I love you Rosie, but I don’t know what that means, exactly. This isn’t like anything I’ve ever felt before. I need more time to work it out. Will you let me?’


	14. One Day Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can only think it must be love  
> Oh anyway  
> It’s looking like a beautiful day  
> Someone tell me how I feel  
> It’s silly wrong and vivid right  
> Oh, kiss me like the final meal  
> Yeah, kiss me like we die tonight  
> ‘Cause holy cow I love your eyes  
> And only now I see the light  
> Yeah, lying with me half-awake…

Warm skin under his lips. Soft firmness in his hand. Orange-blossom.

Tom opened his eyes. It was still dark, but he didn’t need to see to know where he was. He was in Rosie’s bed, snuggled up behind her.  Somehow, at some point in the night his hand had cupped her breast, unconsciously. He left it there. He had his t-shirt and boxer briefs on, and she was in her pyjamas. After their talk last night she had asked him to stay – not that he would have left her alone anyway – and they had gone to bed, just cuddling, just being together for comfort. Now his body wanted more, but he would not press her.

Rosie was awake. She had been for a while, keeping still, hardly daring to breathe. She could feel Tom’s breath on her neck, was aware of his hardness just brushing her leg, his hand on her breast. She was pretty sure he was awake too, but she didn’t want to disturb him in case he wasn’t. And she liked the feel of his fingers on her. As she thought about that she felt a tingle as her nipples hardened.

‘Morning, my love.’ His voice was low and full of sleepy smiles. He squeezed her lightly, making her gasp. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I can’t think of a nicer way to wake up.’ She put her hand over the one holding her breast.

He nuzzled her hair, struggling with the urge to press his pelvis against her full, round arse which was so close to him, but he knew it wasn’t fair. Being like this with her was overwhelming, but he still needed to clarify his feelings. And until he did, maybe they shouldn’t…

Rosie reached behind her and caressed his cheek, turning her head towards him in the dark of the room. ‘G’morning, Tom.’

He reached up and held her face tenderly, brushing her lips with his. But that wasn’t enough for her; she opened her mouth to him and then they were kissing, deep and long. Pausing for breath, he pulled his face back a little.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Are you kidding?’

Knowing better than to argue, Tom claimed her mouth again, his hands sliding inside her camisole. Allowing his thumbs to trace the sides of her breasts he relished the feel of her skin, how her tongue wrestled with his, how she whimpered as he ran his fingertips over her nipples. Rosie was in heaven. Tom was here, now, in her bed, holding and kissing her and he wanted to stay; all other considerations were for later. His hands were on her now, lifting her, caressing, taking her out of herself. She didn’t know if this was the start of something, the end of something or neither, but she had never felt more alive than at that moment.

‘Oh Rosie, this is wonderful. It feels so…’

‘How does it feel, Tom? Tell me.’ Their voices were just whispers against each other’s skin.

He paused to let it all sink in. Then he spoke into her ear, soft and low. ‘Your skin smells of almonds, tastes a little salty. Like tapas.’ He licked; she chuckled. ‘The shampoo or conditioner you use, it’s orange-blossom and it’s so you, it makes me hard just smelling it.’ He nuzzled her hair again. ‘And you are so soft under my fingers, like silk.’ He kissed her neck, moving down to her shoulder-blades. ‘I love the way your body responds to my mouth, Rosie. I love how your hips fit into my hands as if they were made to be there.’ He demonstrated, smoothing the pads of his fingers over the crest of her pelvis. ‘I love the way you smell when you want me. Like now.’

His fingers had reached the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, and were sliding under it. She moaned, arched her back so she pressed against him.

‘Your turn.’

Rosie smiled; she had so much she wanted to say. Her head turned towards him and she took a deep draught of his fragrance. ‘I love how you smell right now: of soap; your cologne; a little bit of sweat but there is also that musky male thing you always have. That makes me wet.’ His fingers brushed lightly over her swollen bud. ’Hey! Not fair! That’s distracting.’ He laughed darkly; didn’t move his hand. ‘Your lips are so soft; I love how they contrast with the stubble on your cheek. It makes me tingle all over.’ She reached behind and grabbed his backside. ‘I wanted to touch your arse for so long! I want to bite it.’ He shivered at that. ‘I have spent so long thinking about your body, driving myself mad over it. It is so beautiful, so strong…’

Tom lifted them both into a sitting position so they could take off their clothing. Still behind her he grabbed the hem of her little top and kissed her shoulder as he took it off. He threw his t-shirt on the floor and they lay back down, snuggled even closer now. It was still very dark in the room: sound, taste, smell and touch were everything. Tom gave in to the urge to thrust against her and they both moaned at the sensation.

‘I love the way that feels, Tom. I love that I make you like that. I never thought I would. I love that I can feel your nipples against my back, and all your muscles as they move under the skin.’

Moaning deep in his chest, he hooked his fingers around her pyjama bottoms and pulled them down. She kicked them away and tugged at his boxer briefs. He swiftly removed them, and as he moved close up behind Rosie again his hard cock slipped between her thighs and along her slit. No longer able to think about anything but how she felt against him, he began to slide himself up and down against her wetness, coating himself with it.

Their moans and whimpers were louder now, and Rosie yelped as Tom’s hand returned to its previous location, his fingers to teasing her clit, standing proud of its hood. Her head rolled back against his shoulder as he continued to buck his hips, massaging his length along her lips.  She was moaning his name with every stroke, and then he paused, adjusted his angle and slid slowly, steadily inside her.

_Home._

That was what it felt like to him. Home was Rosie; her bed, her body.

But life’s not that simple.

Jimmy rolled over and covered his head with a pillow. They were making quite a lot of noise next door. He wished he’d gone to Larry’s, but after the show last night he thought he ought to go home for Rosie.

_Turns out I’m not needed_

Whatever Tom felt about her, he certainly liked fucking her, if his shouts were anything to go by; and hers. Jimmy was trying to be happy for her; she had sat through so many of his break-ups, holding his hand. She had lain in bed like he was now, an unwilling witness to his sex life. But he knew about Tom’s confusion, and it worried him. He recognised that in the end, there wasn’t anything he could do about it; that was between them. What lay at the bottom of his concern was how Rosie had been before all this came out, and before Tom took this new, romantic, _sexual_ interest in her. Jimmy knew hadn’t been able to help her through those bad times before, not really. How much worse would it be this time?

 Lying together in the afterglow, Rosie and Tom looked at each other as the first morning light began to peep through the window. Tousled, his lips red and his eyes hazy with lust, Rosie thought he had never looked sexier – not even when he commanded Hall H. Tom couldn’t remember a time when he felt more comfortable. Rosie’s legs tangled with his, their fingers intertwined on the pillow between them.

He didn’t want to take his eyes off her, because as long as he kept looking at her, he knew he loved her and that was enough. But when he allowed the rest of the world to come into his head, it changed. His life; that was the problem. He didn’t know if he was ready for commitment – and Rosie deserved nothing less – and he didn’t know if she was ready to be sucked into the vortex of his crazy existence. Even in the short-term, the next few weeks, it wouldn’t be easy: he was performing six nights a week, with two matinees as well. He wanted to see her all the time, but how would that work, with her job and his?

‘What’s wrong, love?’

Rosie had seen the troubled look on his face. He smiled; her voice chased the clouds away.

‘I was just realising how hard it’s going to be for us to see each other in the next few weeks. Can you come to the show on Tuesday? I’ve got Wednesday off.’

‘Of course.’ She paused, remembering. ‘Although I can’t say I relish the thought of seeing you die again.’

He stroked her cheek. ‘Don’t worry. I’m planning to take you home with me afterwards and show you how alive I am.’

Rosie stood in the shower later, let the water soak her hair and tried to get a grip on herself. Her life had taken so many strange turns in the past few weeks that she felt dizzy with it. Was this the beginning of something serious with Tom, or was it just going to be this; wonderful sex? If she had to, she would settle for that. After all, he would be off to Canada right after the run at the Donmar. Did he want them to be a couple? He hadn’t said so; all he had said was that he didn’t know what his feelings for her meant.

As she dried herself Rosie considered the matter. Could this be worse than what she had before: plain, simple, _uncomplicated_ unrequited love? What if he flew off and that was it? What if things went back to how they were, with him just being a friend? Could she stand that, after the last few days? She thought about how he had kissed her; how his body felt against hers; how it felt when he was inside her, shouting her name as he came.

If she had to, she could live on that for the rest of her life.

While she showered, Tom dressed and ran to Middle Lane to fetch croissants for all three of them. They stood in the kitchen having breakfast and joking and teasing like the old days. Except everything was different. Tom couldn’t stop touching Rosie: her waist; her shoulder; her hand; her face. Jimmy watched and smiled and tried to look encouraging. But he felt a dark cloud gathering in his mind. He had no right to interfere, no part to play beyond that of understanding buddy for them both. But he wanted to take Tom out and shake him.

_Don’t tease her. Don’t lead her on. If you don’t mean it, don’t start it…_

At Tom’s urging, after breakfast Rosie went with him to his house, taking a few things to leave there. His intention was that – as well as New Year’s Day - she should spend every Sunday with him until he went to Canada. She agreed, feeling more hopeful than she knew was healthy, but he seemed so loving, and her heart wanted it so much she was inclined to allow herself to believe. As they lay in his bed that afternoon, Tom fell asleep and she watched him. She remembered how she used to do that when he lived at the flat and after if he stayed over on the sofa; dreaming, hoping but never really thinking she would ever share his bed.

She knew the danger she was in. She was in love; madly, deliriously happy, but she wasn’t stupid. She had guessed at Tom’s doubts, understood them. She was too old for him, for one thing. He wanted a family, so had she once, but was it too late for her, even if this worked out? His life was so different to hers; he had lost relationships before, sacrificed on the altar of his fame and the separation his career forced on them. But then she turned her head and looked at his face, smooth and untroubled in his sleep. This was the man she loved; enough to do what was best for him, even if, in the end, that meant losing him once more. He stirred and reached for her and she was gathered into his arms again.

After ten years, to have these days with him would be worth risking whatever the future might bring.


	15. Feelin' Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birds flying high, you know how I feel  
> Sun in the sky, you know how I feel  
> Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel  
> It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day,  
> It’s a new life for me

2014 had started out grey, damp and uninspiring, but Rosie barely noticed. Like most years, January slouched around feeling miserable and spreading that around, but she remained unaffected. Her steps were light and she sang or hummed to herself all the way down the hill and along past the shops to work every morning. She admired the trees in the park, the snowdrops and early crocuses trying to break through, cats slinking under fences and babies in pushchairs. All the things she had tuned out for years were suddenly visible to her. But most of all she felt more like herself again; the Rosie who had been in hiding since Tom moved into the flat all those years ago.

In her teens and twenties she had been one of those who refused to believe that a woman needed a relationship – or a man – to define her, but she had to admit that she felt completely transformed by what was happening. Through her thirties, against all her principles, her life had been about what – or rather _who –_ she _didn’t_ have. She had spent her time surviving until his next email or text, or picking herself up off the floor after his latest visit. Now he was in her life in the way she had always dreamed of, and it made her feel utterly different. And life was good.

The shop was always pretty quiet in the first few weeks of the year, and Rosie was undertaking an informal stocktake to use the time productively. The process always led to some happy discoveries of treasures hidden on the shelves, such as that lovely _Candide_ she had forgotten:

_‘Alas,’ said Pangloss, ‘it was love; the comfort of the human race, preserver of the universe, the soul of all feeling creatures; the tender passion of love.’_

Rosie sat on the chair placed in that part of the shop for just this purpose and idly turned the pages. She hadn’t read it for years, and gloried in its rediscovery: Cunégonde observing Pangloss ‘giving a lesson in applied physics to her mother’s maid’, later on applying it herself to Candide; Candide and Cacambo rescuing two women in the jungle from arse-biting monkeys, only to be nearly eaten by cannibals for their pains; Pangloss’ delightfully naive philosophy that ‘everything is for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds’. The old man hung onto that belief through thick and thin, unlike Rosie herself, who had known some dark days indeed.

Reluctantly, she got up, replaced the volume and continued her tidy/dust/stocktaking, making notes about some books she didn’t recognise to check they were listed online. They couldn’t afford to miss out on a sale, so meticulous record-keeping was a necessity. Work at the shop had a pleasantly gentle rhythm to it. Customers were never in abundance, even less so in January, but there was always something to do and, perforce, plenty of wonderful books to read. Rosie had stayed there for so long because it suited her personality ideally. She and Arthur slotted together well: he was a quiet, studious ‘confirmed bachelor’; Rosie brought a touch of glamour and flair to the business.

_‘I can’t offer you many hours a week, Miss Rhodes.’ Arthur’s kind face was sad. He had taken to the girl, and he wanted to help her._

_‘That’s alright, Mr Jones. I have my job in the pub, and singing in the band makes a bit too. I do need some time for study as well!’ Rosie laughed. Her complicated life had just got a little more so, but she loved the shop and the ‘part-time assistant wanted’ sign had been impossible to resist. She felt totally at home amongst all the leather and paper and that comforting smell of old books._

She couldn’t have known that October morning the best part of two decades ago that this would become a long-term, full-time job in just a couple of years. Her youth and energy revitalised both Arthur and the business, transforming them into one of the best antiquarian booksellers in North London. Before she arrived Arthur had drifted into just buying at random over the years and had stopped researching his purchases thoroughly. He was also very wary of the internet, which had been costing him thousands of sales a year; days after opening the online business Rosie had notched up over six thousand pounds’ worth of orders.

Within a few years of her starting Arthur found himself in poor health and came to rely on her more than ever, practically handing the reins over as he became more and more unwell and Rosie’s life narrowed down to the shop and singing. The arrangement suited them both, but he saw the deterioration in Rosie’s state of mind and it worried him. She never talked about her private life, but he guessed it might have something to do with the tall, handsome fellow who occasionally took her out for lunch or brought coffee and pastries to the shop. He might be celibate, but he wasn’t stupid. Or blind.

Arthur watched Rosie that morning, happy to hear her lovely voice as she hummed and whistled while she worked her way through the stacks. Something had changed for her over the holiday period, although she remained as tight-lipped as ever. She had been very low just before Christmas, but now that fellow Tom came to the shop every week, Rosie’s cheeks were pink and a smile was never far from her lips.

He hadn’t told her, but it was Arthur’s intention to leave Rosie a majority stake in the business when he died, which wouldn’t be long now. He had prostate cancer and it had spread: the prognosis wasn’t great. He had seen his solicitor in December and made Rosie and Lauren his heirs, with a 70:30 split share in the shop. He had no other family who were interested in the business, and Rosie was the one who made the whole undertaking function, after all.  His great-niece was enthusiastic, but she was still very young, and she had an academic career ahead of her, he was sure. The recent change in Rosie pleased him; she deserved to be happy. She was a beautiful, talented, brilliant woman. That Tom was a very lucky chap.

Rosie looked up and caught him looking at her, his face thoughtful.

‘Everything OK, Arthur?’

‘Yes, Rosie dear. Just thinking how nice it is to hear you sing again.’

Eating her lunch in the back room, Rosie checked her phone. There was a short text from Tom. She smiled to herself. Being apart from him used to hurt so much, but now it wasn’t anything like as painful, despite the fact that they only spent a few hours together a week. Sundays were theirs – although Tom was usually sleeping for a good part of the day – and he came to see her for coffee at least once a week at the shop. Most Saturdays _The Thieving Magpies_ had a gig, so Rosie had a key and would let herself into Tom’s house after she finished; sometimes he beat her there, but not always. She was surprised at how quickly they had settled into a comfortable routine with one another, but then they already knew each other so well they didn’t have to go through much of the adjustment process of more conventional couples.

Sitting there, cosy next to the gas fire which made the room feel like her grandmother’s parlour, Rosie pondered the future. Just a few weeks ago it had seemed pretty bleak; now it was uncertain. Tom had made her no promises, gave her no vows or even talked about what would happen at the end of the run at the Donmar. Nevertheless, she was surprised to discover that this didn’t bother greatly. She had been chiding herself for being the pathetic stereotypical girl who was only happy once Prince Charming had come along and swept her off her feet. This was not the woman she expected to be, wanted to be… But now she had this new, deeper, physical and emotional relationship with Tom she realised that she saw things in a new, fresh way. Being with him was not the be-all and end-all of her existence - not in the way _not being with him_ had been.

But that was easy to say while he was there, and while they were together in this… whatever it was.

Tom was preparing for the evening performance, warming up onstage. It was necessary, given the highly physical nature of the production, as was his gory body make-up. This had to be meticulously applied; a tedious process, made less so by combining it with lunch, but it was still time-consuming. Tom used part of this time to think about Rosie. It was a blessing in some ways that their jobs restricted how long they could spend in each other’s company for the moment: it slowed things down and gave him breathing space to get his thoughts in order. When he was with her, she filled his mind and his heart, and that was as it should be. He concentrated on her then, and his feelings seemed less ambiguous. But the play was very intense; when he was at the theatre he was absorbed by it; when he was at home he was usually wrung out and exhausted. Was that why he was finding it so hard to pin down the precise nature of his feelings?

His doubts puzzled him. He wanted to believe he was ready for commitment, and his pull towards Rosie was stronger than any he had ever had before. But he loved her, had loved her for years and he was only too aware that making her ‘his’ would subject her to the sort of scrutiny that had harmed his girlfriends in the past. The love lives of celebrities were fair game for the online world, and he knew how cruel that place could be. Was that the source of his uncertainty?

He had begun to acknowledge that he was also a little scared.

All of this was so unexpected; he had no idea that Rosie had been in love with him since their days flat-sharing, not until that fateful night in _The White Horse_. How he had missed it he had no idea, but he had, until he saw how she looked at him as she sang those songs. He had been completely poleaxed by it, and as he began to get a grip on himself in the following few days he had started to see Rosie properly for the first time in years. Little things he liked about her became obsessions, like the way her mouth moved just a little when she was reading; how she became intensely focused when she was cooking something – usually something delicious; how the skin of her neck smelt of almonds and that flowery perfume she always wore.

He was trying now to focus on the play, on Caius Martius, but he had momentarily allowed his mind to touch on February, and Canada. Icy fingers had gripped his heart when he thought about being so far from Rosie for so long.

Did that mean he was in love?

A couple of days later, at nine in the evening Jimmy was his usual disorganised, panicking self.  He and Rosie were fully prepared to leave for that night’s gig at _The Hind Quarters_ , but he had lost his watch _._ She rolled her eyes; there was always something. It was only the second time they had played a show there since Tom had turned up unannounced and turned Rosie’s and his own life upside down. She was looking forward to it, now she had her singing mojo back. The meltdown in Camden was behind her, and she had found a way to put her new-found happiness into her singing. It lacked the pure tragedy of the old days, but Jimmy for one was greatly relieved about that.

Not that he was entirely happy with how things were going. Every week he would hope on Sunday night that Rosie would come home and say Tom had made some kind of commitment to her, but things just seemed to be drifting along. Jimmy was more than a little angry about it; Tom was having his cake and eating it, and Rosie was the one who would be going hungry. He accepted it was up to her, and after all she was a big girl, but still he fretted, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

There was a good crowd in the pub. The band had a hard-won reputation and very little advertising was needed to fill the small back room where they performed, even for a late-night show like this one. When Derek, the landlord, announced them there was loud cheering and it only got louder when they began to sing offstage. By the time _Under The Bridge_ had reached its crescendo the room was swaying along and the applause at the end was deafening. Even Hugh looked chuffed as they moved onto the next number, _When Doves Cry_. The next two songs, _Track of My Tears_ and  _You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling_ held less dread for Rosie than they ever had, and she was positively gasping to get to grips with _Sign Your Name._

Tom, Mark, Birgitte and Alfred slipped quietly into the back of the packed space. Tom hadn’t told Rosie that he was coming to the show, let alone that he was bringing some colleagues. He wanted to wipe away the bad memory of what had happened there in November, and he was aching to hear Rosie singing again. And he wanted to show her off, not that he had told anyone about what was happening between them. He thought that Mark and Hadley had guessed, and Deborah and the others who were at the cabaret in Camden knew there was something going on.

When the set reached _Who’s That Girl_ Mark leaned his head towards Tom’s and sang along with the chorus. Tom laughed; Mark had worked it out. He was waiting as eagerly as Rosie was for _Sign Your Name._ The catharsis of that night in this place, of that song and _Do You Want the Truth or Something Beautiful_ had led him and Rosie to where they were now, and for that he was happy. But the pain he had seen in her, and the knowledge that he had caused it – and for so very long – still burned. He was aware of anger bubbling up when he thought about it: with Rosie for not showing him how she felt; with Jimmy for not alerting him; but mainly with himself. He hoped that hearing her sing the songs again now would ease the discomfort of that memory.

Jimmy and Hugh did their ‘stoner on a desert island’ routine for _Summertime_ and Rosie readied herself, still unaware of Tom’s presence.  The intro started and she whistled her way through it cheerfully, eyes closed as usual. This time she sang the first verse, then opened her eyes to see his face at the rear of the room, in almost the same spot. Not faltering she continued, doing her signature dance moves as her rich sexy voice soared. They had never performed the song better, the tender harmonies of the backing vocalists’ ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ supported by a pulsating rhythm filling the room with sensuality. And when Rosie reached the verse that – in the bad old days – used to cut her like a knife, she sang the words with a smile in her voice.

**_All alone with you makes the butterflies in me arise_ **

**_Slowly we make love_ **

**_And the earth rotates to our dictates_ **

**_Slowly we make love…_ **

He was there, and it didn’t hurt anymore.

‘Bah-da boom-boom’ went Jimmy and _Wonderful World_ started. Rosie sang it directly to Tom, who blushed and smiled and, at the end of the song mouthed ‘I love you’ to her. Her stomach flipped, but she refused to allow herself to over-interpret that as anything beyond what it was. He kept catching her eye and blowing kisses for the rest of the set. As her run of solos approached, Rosie wondered how different it would feel to sing them with Tom not only in the room but ‘with’ her in the way she used to imagine for all those years as she sang. The Paloma Faith songs were relatively recent additions to their repertoire, and Rosie had chosen them for their lyrics as much as anything. As _Play On_ began it occurred to her how perfectly it matched her situation.

**_So play on!_ **

**_Keep me dancing in the air_ **

**_No one else they can compare_ **

**_To the harmony of our sweet rapture…_ **

 This ‘thing’ with Tom, whatever it was, might not last beyond his departure for Canada, but she was at peace with that possibility. He had given her – was giving her - a few weeks of rapture. So many people never got even a taste of their one, true love. It would hurt, but not as much as not having him at all had. She had become accustomed to sharing him with the world; she would be able to adjust back to that relatively easily.

**_There’ll be some pain, but I’ll keep it in my locket_ **

Tom, on the other hand, felt surer that he needed Rosie. The words of _Only Love Can Hurt Like This_ spoke louder to him than ever before. He did feel real pain when he was away from her, and the thought of being parted made him want to weep.

**_And when you come close_ **

**_I just tremble_ **

**_And every time_ **

**_Every time you go_ **

**_It’s like a knife that cuts right to my soul_ **

Birgitte and the others were leaving, thanking him for suggesting they come, but Tom barely heard them. He was miles away, his thoughts swirling, as he tried to decide what to do; what to say, how to act.

**_Only love can hurt like this_ **


	16. I Feel the Earth Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh darling, when you’re near me  
> And you tenderly call my name  
> I know that my emotions  
> Are something I just can’t tame  
> I just got to have you baby

Home.

That’s where he was now.

In bed next to her, her scent on the pillows, her body close to his. Now he knew truly what it meant.

_Home_.

Tom had a hazy recollection of the time from the end of _The Thieving Magpies’_ set onwards. His tiredness began to kick in rapidly as the show finished and he only had vague memories of travelling home with Rosie in the car. He seemed to think he may have made a lame joke about being a groupie, but he had no idea how he had got to bed. Presumably Rosie had undressed them both, because here she was, soft skin against his, breathing steadily in her sleep.

He was waking up in every sense. He could not recall a time when he had felt more content; more relaxed about life. After years of looking for that special someone, he had discovered she was right there all along. He knew it was true, because if he thought about Canada and leaving her behind, it hurt. A lot. If he allowed himself – even for just a moment – to consider saying goodbye to her and just leaving, without any commitment to the future, without telling her how he felt about her, he wanted to cry. The prospect of not having her in his life the way he did now was too horrible to contemplate. Finally, he was beginning to accept that he had, after all these years, fallen in love with her. Rosie was everything; everything he needed, but still he hesitated.

_London’s streets were shiny and glistening in the freezing rain as the car had taken them through the quiet city. Tom’s hand was holding Rosie’s lightly against his leg._

_‘I always wanted to be a groupie,’ he whispered in her ear drowsily, ‘and get to go home with the singer.’_

_Rosie smiled to herself. Everything was so different; coming out after the show to find him waiting for her, his eyes shining despite his obvious tiredness. In the privacy of the now-deserted back room of the pub, he had pulled her into his arms and kissed her, not bothered that the other band-members were still milling around. She had heard Ed and Dale stop talking abruptly as they helped Hugh to pack up the sound system; well, the cat was well and truly out of the bag now. Fortunately she knew she could trust those guys to keep it all on the DL._

_Tom had been a little more discreet in the car. He had hired a driver since the scuffles and unpleasantness at the stage door started and Faisal had agreed to drop him off at the pub and to collect him later, which was very good of him. Typically he and Tom had quickly developed a friendly relationship but it was still a bit too soon to trust him with all his personal secrets. So they sat apart, just their hands touching. Rosie was still amazed that Tom had found the energy to come to see her show. He had even joined in during the audience participation of Higher and Higher, along with everyone else. That was Rosie’s favourite part some nights, especially if Dale was on form with his patter and the crowd responded like they had tonight. The noise had lifted the roof, deafening them all. It was their usual final encore and one certain to send both the crowd and the band home happy._

_Rosie could hear that Tom was still sleepily singing it to himself as they wended their way past Alexandra Park - floodlit Ally Pally sparkling on the hill above them - through Highgate and southwards towards Chalk Farm and his house. Weariness was seeping into her bones. It was early Sunday morning now, after a long week with a demanding show just over and she needed to get to bed. She looked at Tom: his head was nodding, eyes closed. Sleep was what they were both in need of tonight._

Tom shifted a little, stretching his long legs to ease an ache in a muscle and Rosie stirred. This was his favourite part of the week now; waking up on a lazy Sunday morning in bed with this wonderful woman. His companion turned and smiled at him, her hair a little messy but still beautiful.

‘You OK? You were totally zonked last night.’

‘Yes, I think I was pretty knackered. Did you put me to bed? I don’t remember.’

She laughed softly. ‘Yes, you were nearly asleep on your feet. I had to undress you.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘It was fun.’ A shiver ran through her as she remembered the feeling of sliding his clothes off him, being able to caress every part as it was revealed. It was an oddly moving experience; a form of worship.

‘You must let me return the compliment sometime soon,’ Tom chuckled.

He nuzzled her neck, delighting in the way goose pimples erupted as his lips brushed over her flesh. His hands were exploring, touching her back and gradually moving slowly, subtly towards her full breasts where he could begin his own act of worship. Gently he eased her onto her back so he could kiss his way down to them, taking first one, then the other nipple into his mouth. Her back arched in response to his tongue and teeth teasing the pink flesh until it stood to attention. His hand worked on the other, squeezing and pinching until it too was hard. He loved to hear the little moans and whimpers he caused her to make, and to see the way she writhed with the pleasure of his touch. He adored Rosie’s breasts; they were large enough to fill his big hands and he loved to hold them. He was a boob man anyway, but hers were special: firm yet soft; skin like satin; dark pink nipples he could suck on forever; he wanted to drown in them. But the most special thing about them was that they were Rosie’s.

He moved up to kiss her lovely mouth again, and she pulled him against her, opening her legs and allowing him to slide up and into her welcoming body. They moved together, rhythms matching, shifting to increase the other’s pleasure, caressing and moaning and whispering endearments. With them both still sleepy, it was slow, gentle and loving, this morning sex.  They tasted the skin of one another’s necks, gloried in the feel of their bodies moving against each other and the sound of their joining. This was lovemaking on a whole different level; it was more like a deep spiritual union rather than a purely physical one. Afterwards Tom felt it had been an almost religious experience.

At some point during it he had stopped trying to pretend that this was anything over than love; the truest, deepest, most significant love. He wanted Rosie in every way that a man could want a woman; as a lover, a companion, a help-mate, the mother of his children… That was one thing that gave him pause. Would she want a family? They had never discussed it, of course. She knew how he felt, but he had never asked her and she had never said. Once more he cursed his own stupidity. Her celibacy wasn’t a choice, he knew that now, but how did she feel about having children?

He wanted to tell her all this, ask her all those questions, but he was afraid.

Rosie looked at his face next to hers on the pillow, a frown furrowing his beautiful brow.

‘What’s wrong love?’ Her hand caressed his cheek, the fingertips tracing his jaw and continuing down his neck.

He smiled, and returned her caress. ‘Nothing, darling. Just wondering how I could have missed all this beauty for so long.’

Rosie stretched over and kissed the end of his nose, allowing her tongue to flick over the little divot there playfully. She loved how his eyes rolled shut when she did that, as if it were another part of him she was teasing. A twinge of worry went through her; she suspected he wasn’t being entirely honest. She had caught him looking at her with that expression a few times recently and she was beginning to believe he was planning to let her down easy when he left for Canada.  She was at peace with the prospect. She didn’t think he wanted to hurt her and she had gone into this – what was it really? - this _dalliance_ knowing that it wouldn’t last.

After a long brunch of pancakes and bacon they roused themselves for a walk in Regents Park. The fresh air revitalised them both and they returned to the house and made love again, on the sofa this time. Rosie shouted Tom’s name as his mouth and fingers brought her to yet another mind-blowing orgasm. He loved to see her like that; so sensual and so responsive to him. His fears about her possible reaction to any declaration he might make were miles away when he held her and touched her and when her lips were on him and driving him to new heights of pleasure. Afterwards, as they lay together, tangled limbs warm under the blanket Tom kept handy, he realised he had to say something; had to say it today.

‘You know, it’s only three weeks until I leave for Toronto.’

She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yeah.’

‘These past few weeks, Rosie, since, you know, Boxing Day… they’ve been amazing.’

She stiffened. _Here it comes._

Tom felt her tension. _She thinks I’m going to dump her. Oh god. She thinks I’d do that._

He sat up so he could see her face. ‘Rosie. I love you.’

‘I know Tom, but…’

‘No. I mean I _love you._ ’ He cupped her face with his large hands, watching rapt as tears brimmed over and trickled down her cheeks.

‘I’m. In. Love. With. You.’ Each word was punctuated with a kiss.

‘I have been a total idiot, and I am so sorry for treating you the way have these past few weeks. I kept trying to tell myself I didn’t know how I felt. I even told Jimmy, then you, that I didn’t know. But it was a lie, Rosie. I knew alright. I was scared, because it was so overpowering. I _was_ telling the truth when I said I’d never felt this way before, because I haven’t, although I recognised what it was. But it seemed ridiculous, inexplicable that I could fall in love with _you_ , Rosie, so suddenly, after all these years.’ He paused to kiss her softly on the lips again and tasted her briny tears.

He smiled. ‘I think my heart knew it all along.’ He fingered the necklace she was wearing, the one he had given her for Christmas. ‘I had this made for you. I designed it myself.’ She looked into his eyes and fresh tears flowed.

‘I want us to stay together - if you do. I can’t bear the thought of being without you, Rosie. I want to be with you, as much as possible. It won’t be easy for the time I’m in Canada, but if you’ll have me, I’m yours.’

Rosie was stunned. Of all the things she could have expected, this was the very last. Very gently, she lifted Tom’s arms off her body and stood up, reaching for her t-shirt and joggers which had been tossed aside in the throes of passion earlier. She needed a moment to gather her thoughts, and took it as she dressed. She could hear him holding his breath, no doubt anxious about her reaction. She turned and smiled at him. His face lit up, but she saw he still looked troubled.

‘Then what’s worrying you, Tom?’

He sighed, standing to walk over to her and stroked her hair. ‘I’m asking a lot of you, Rosie, I’m aware of that. You can guess what it would mean for you, if word gets out about us. I don’t relish the idea of you getting the sort of treatment that’s been doled out before.’

She frowned, considering this.

‘Then let’s keep it quiet.’

He looked at her face, his eyebrows raised higher than she would have thought humanly possible.

‘Do you mean…?’

‘Of course, stupid. I’m yours too, but you already know that, surely.’ He hand reached up and caressed his face; her fingertips touched his high hairline she loved so much, ran down his cheekbone to his jaw and neck. ‘I love you, Tom. I have been in love with you for a long time, and now…? I have never been happier, ever in my whole life. I’ll miss you while you’re away, of course, but that’s nothing new. And knowing that you’ll be coming back to me…’

He kissed her then, and they kissed for a long time. Soon it became clear they would be making love again and Tom gathered her into his arms and carried her up to the bedroom, where they stayed until it was time for dinner to be ordered in. He opened the bottle of champagne he kept in his fridge for ‘emergencies’ and they ate the most joyful meal Rosie could ever remember. It was a tug for her to leave, but they both needed to rest properly and she had to open the shop in the morning, so a taxi was hailed before they changed their minds – a real danger that evening.

Rosie sat in the back of the cab, watching the streets outside the window getting less salubrious as they neared the London Borough of Haringey. Her thoughts whirled, but one thing shouted loudest: _he loves me._ She knew he was right about what he was asking her to take on, if things got serious, and she wasn’t sure she would cope well with their relationship becoming public. But for now there was no need for that.

_Serious. Wasn’t it already? He said he’s in love with me. And he doesn’t say stuff like that lightly – he’s not that kind of man._

Rosie pondered the other things he had said, about her visiting him in Toronto, and about Skyping and so on as much as they could. He would be gone for months, and she wondered if he would feel differently once he had some time apart from her to really think.

_He’s forgetting my age. He wants a family. So do I, but…_

She allowed her mind to start worrying at these doubts but her heart kept shouting one thing which almost – but not quite – drowned everything else out: _he loves me._

Jimmy was waiting as he had been every week when she returned from Tom’s, hoping that this would be the night she would have news; one way or the other. He was so tense about it he had shredded half a box of tissues as he sat ignoring _Antiques Roadshow,_ and he leapt up when he heard Rosie’s voice thanking the cabbie. She came in, her face glowing with joy and he knew. He didn’t have to ask her, it was plain to see. He opened his arms and they hugged for several minutes,

‘Finally come to his senses, then, has he?’

Rosie’s smile made his heart sing; she looked truly happy for the first time in the twenty years Jimmy had known her.

‘He loves me, Jimmy. He said so, and he’s not the kind of man who says that unless he means it, you know that. He wants us to stay together, says I can visit him in Toronto.’

Jimmy looked at her, unable to wipe the grin off his own face. ‘I’m so relieved. I was afraid I was going to have to get Dale to beat him up.’

Rosie snorted with laughter: Dale might look like Thor, but in reality he was more like Leonard Hofstatder.

‘This calls for a celebration!’

‘Oh no more booze, darling! I’ve had champagne already tonight.’

Jimmy pouted so she let him pour her an extremely weak vodka-tonic and they clinked glasses.

‘To Canada! And to you and Thomas and the future.’

Rosie grinned but she felt a little uneasiness in her gut; what did the future really hold? She reflected that just a few hours earlier she had been at peace with the idea that he would be gone from her soon. Now he had made the commitment she daren’t even dream of and yet she felt less sure of what was ahead than ever. As she lay in bed later, she resolved to concentrate on loving Tom and let tomorrow bring what it might. And her heart clasped his words and held them tight. They were better than all the precious things hidden in the box below her.

_I love you, Rosie_


	17. Upside Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels watching over me/With smiles upon their face/Cause I have made it through this far/In an unforgiving place… Sometimes life can taste so sweet/When you slow it down/You start to see the world a little differently/When you turn it upside down…

‘You’re in a hurry tonight, darling.’ Mark Gatiss nodded at Tom’s drinks on the bar – a beer and a whiskey chaser, and next to them empty versions of the same thing. He looked at Tom for a long moment, eyebrows raised, considering. ‘Where is that lovely creature this evening?’

Tom winced. ‘If you mean Rosie,’ he said sotto voce, ‘she’s not here. Too public.’ He looked into his glass disconsolately before knocking it back in one gulp. He had been finding it impossible to keep up the pretence this evening. He had done his duty; come along, joined in, but now he just wanted to be with her. All the noise and chatter did now was to irritate him.

Mark settled into the next stool. ‘So, you two _are_ an item then? I knew it! Good for you, Thomas. She’s lovely, and what a singer!’ He patted Tom on the back. ‘Missing her?’

‘Like a limb,’ Tom mumbled into his drink. He felt a blackness creeping over him; this was what the next few months were going to be like. Work was OK, wonderful; it absorbed him and gave him life, but he was dreading the other side of it: parties and events and trying to be jolly without Rosie; going back to an empty room every night. At least he would see her in a few hours; in less than a week they would be thousands of miles apart.

‘You’re going to miss her while you’re in Toronto.’

Tom stared bleakly into his whiskey. ‘Yes. She can come over, I hope, but we want to keep things private, at least until she’s happy for people to know about us.’ He motioned to the barman to set him up again.

‘Is she performing tonight?’

Tom shook his head. ‘No. She’s at home, I think. She said something about watching a DVD.’

‘Ring her. Hear her voice.’

Tom pulled out his phone.

The film had just got to Rosie’s favourite bit - when Gil tells Inez he’s staying in Paris - when her phone started to sound with a ringtone that always made her heart speed up. ‘Hi. Having a good time?’

‘No. I miss you.’

‘You are drunk, Hiddleston.’ Her tone was scolding.

‘Not drunk enough. I need you, Rosie.’

‘I know. I need you too, love. Can you leave soon?’

‘Not for a bit. Luke has to film me accepting the Elle award thing.’

‘You can’t do that now! You’re too pissed!’

‘I’ll be fine. I’m a professional.’

Rosie imagined him pulling himself together and straightening his tie. She didn’t think Luke would let him do anything too stupid.

‘OK, love. Speak to you in the morning. And Tom?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Water from now on, love.’

When Rosie woke up there were several texts from Tom on her phone. He had not taken her advice, clearly.

**_< lub u>_ **

**_< mudd u>_ **

She laughed and got ready for work. She was about to leave the flat when she sent him a response.

**_< Lub u 2. R xxx>_ **

As she reached the shop her phone rang.

‘Sorry for the drunk texting.’ His voice was croaky, weak.

‘You sound… awful.’ She couldn’t help smiling. Tom didn’t over-indulge often, but when he did, he really went for it.

‘I’m not too bad. Dosing up with paracetamol and water. Can I bring you lunch later?’

‘Sounds great. I’m on my own today. See you then. And I do.’

‘What?’

‘Lub ooo.’

She hung up, hearing his ‘eheheheh’ laugh in her ear.

Tom made a bit of an effort with lunch despite feeling pretty rough, heating up some nice soup, putting it in a thermos, buying petits-pains from the boulangerie to go with and nipping into the florist’s for some roses. He strolled up the road to the shop, his tummy tingling at the thought of seeing her again. Even the residual headache he had couldn’t dampen his spirits. Rosie was tidying a shelf when the bell sounded and she turned to see him standing there. He put down his bag with all the goodies in it and extended his arms; she threw herself into them.

‘Come away from the window. People can see us.’

She was whispering into his ear. Tom moved, reluctantly. Half of him hoped word would get out so that he could shout it from the rooftops. After locking the door and turning the ‘closed’ sign around, Rosie led him through the labyrinth of shelves, their path twisting one way and then the other until they reached a spot in the side-room, windowless, cramped and very secluded. Tom glanced at the volumes on the shelf next to his head.

‘Poetry. Perfect.’

He pulled her against him, his lips sucking gently on the skin below her ear. She melted, her fingers working their way under his sweater. Lunch could wait; for now, nourishment of another kind was needed. Tom’s hands were travelling up inside her skirt, and she was silently cursing her choice of clothing. It was not quick to get out of knee-length boots and tights, but she managed it as rapidly as she could. Knees trembling with want, Tom lifted Rosie up against the stack behind, her leg over his hip. She was more than ready and he glided into her welcoming wet warmth, pausing to relish the sensation of her enveloping him.

All thoughts of his hangover were banished as he began to roll his hips, the sound of their moans and whimpers deadened by the rug and the crowded shelves surrounding them. Shelley and Keats were shaking, Elizabeth Barrett was clapping, Byron cheering them on as Tom’s thrusts speeded up. Rosie could not think of a better scenario: old books and new love. Poetry, romance, pleasure; all her favourite things in one room at one moment.

‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…’

‘you’re divine! said he’

His voice was a low growl, then neither of them had breath for poems as they reached the edge and fell over together. Tom let her leg down and she stood, quivering for a few moments before dressing.

‘We’d better eat. I can’t keep the shop shut for _too_ long…’

After they had drunk the soup from mugs and shared a dessert of fruit, Arthur tapped on the door that led from the back room to the yard. His flat had its own separate entrance leading onto it, and he never just came in, even though he owned the entire property. Accepting Rosie’s offer of a cuppa, he settled into the chair opposite Tom and regarded him while she went into the kitchenette to put the kettle on. He saw how the blue eyes followed her every move, shining with love. Once the drinks were made, Rosie went to reopen and settled at the computer to deal with online orders and emails. ‘You love her.’ It was a statement. Tom nodded, smiling. ‘I don’t blame you. She is a special person. She tells me you are off to Canada at the end of the week.’

Tom grimaced. ‘Yes. I am excited about the film, but it’s going to be tough.’ He had been avoiding getting involved with anyone again because his career was going so well, and that meant long periods abroad and travelling the globe doing promotional work. But of course, love doesn’t work like that. When it happens, it happens. ‘I hope Rosie will be able to have a little time off to visit me.’

Arthur smiled. ‘Of course! She is owed about ten years’ worth of leave. She never takes a proper holiday; I can’t get her to, anyway. Says she can’t afford it.’

The bell rang, heralding a customer and they heard Rosie and whoever it was chatting. Arthur took the chance, leaning forward and lowering his voice.

‘You won’t hurt her, will you, Tom?’

‘I never wanted to hurt her before, Arthur; I didn’t know I was. I certainly won’t again. She means the world to me.’

‘Good boy.’ He tapped him on the knee. ‘She makes out she’s tough, but she’s quite fragile underneath.’

Tom looked through the doorway to where Rosie stood, smiling and listening intently to the woman customer. ‘I know. I think we’re all like that, aren’t we?’

‘She’s going to miss you, and you her, while you’re over there.’

Tom sighed heavily, nodding. ‘I’d love to take her, have her with me all the time, but she wants to keep our relationship quiet for now. I understand that. And she has her own life: the shop, the band. I don’t want to ask her to give all that up for me.’

‘I think that’s up to her, don’t you? You should let _her_ decide, when the time comes.’

Arthur’s own heart was full of bittersweet feelings. He loved Rosie, he wanted her to be happy; but he knew that he could not cope without her. If she left, he would be forced to close the shop, almost certainly. But that was not important. What mattered to him most was that Rosie should be safe, happy and well.

‘You’re right, of course.’ Tom looked at the other man. He was thinner, frailer-looking than he remembered. ‘How are _you_ , Arthur?’

‘Oh, I’m OK. I just get tired really easily. It’s my age mainly.’

_That’s not exactly true, is it?_ Tom knew dissembling when he heard it, but didn’t pursue the matter. He thought Arthur looked like he was in God’s waiting room, in all honesty. He had that extreme pallor bordering on transparency that the very old and very sick get. He wondered what implications that might have for Rosie.

Rosie closed the shop early the day before Tom’s flight to Toronto. Sitting on the Tube as it rattled its way to Camden where she had to change trains, she tried to compose herself. It would be awful if they spent the last few hours before his departure in floods of tears, but that was how she felt. She had endured months without him before, many, many times, but this was different: he hadn’t been _hers_ then. She had something real, something very precious to miss this time.

As she changed for the other branch of the Northern Line, Tom was busy putting the finishing touches to his plan for the afternoon and evening. He had bought so many flowers that he had run out of vases, and had to use measuring jugs and mixing bowls, but it looked alright, he thought. There was clean linen on the bed. He had been cooking all morning, so everything was ready for later; all he had to do was put the oven on and finish the process when the time came. The Chablis was chilling, he had made a playlist. He was all set.

Rosie let herself in, calling out to him as she hung up her coat. She became aware of a presence behind her, and felt his breath on her neck.

‘Darling.’

‘Thomas. What’s that smell?’

He smiled enigmatically. ‘A-ha… I’ve been cooking.’

Rosie raised an eyebrow; he could cook, she knew that, but he hadn’t prepared her a meal once since they had been together; unless you counted breakfast. Tom took her hand and led her upstairs to the sitting room. As she went in Rosie gasped: it was full of roses, on every surface. The lights were on because the day was dull, and the petals reflected the glow. Before she had a chance to comment, he leaned over and started the music.

‘I’ve been wanting to dance with you for about ten years now. Thought this was as good a time as any.’

He held out his hand and Rosie took it as Nina Simone began to sing _Ne Me Quitte Pas,_ wrapping his arm around her waist as he pulled his other up between them so her palm was over his heart. Rosie laid her head on his shoulder as they moved slowly, bodies together from top to toe. Tom breathed in the scent of her hair, felt the warmth of her under his arm and against his chest. How was he going to live without this for weeks on end? Nina finished and Adele began to sing _Lovesong._ As he hoped she might, Rosie started to sing along, her rich and sexy voice reverberating through him. He felt himself getting hard and she did too, pressing just a fraction more firmly with her belly on his growing bulge.

Very gently, he let go of the hand on his chest and lifted her chin with his finger so her mouth met his. He pressed his lips to hers so softly it felt like a prayer. They kept moving to the music as the kiss deepened slowly and gradually. Rosie put her hands around Tom’s neck and caressed the back of his head, allowing her fingernails to scratch at his scalp just enough to make him shudder. The music continued to play but they stopped listening, eventually falling onto the very sofa where they had first made love just six weeks before.

Rosie sat on Tom’s lap, her hands on his head, stroking his face, caressing his neck and tangling in his hair. She felt as if she were being carried along on a massive wave, her feet having been swept from under her. Out of control, just along for the ride. Tom could only think about the way he felt: how wonderful her skin was under his fingertips; how her fragrance filled his head and made him dizzy; how much he wanted to make her his yet again.

She rose up on her knees so they could get his jeans and boxer briefs down, then she took off her tights. She hadn’t bothered with knickers that day. Rosie lifted her knit dress up over her head and Tom made short work of her bra. He ran his hands over her body, luxuriating in her curves, trying to memorise every rise and fall. She took him in hand and wet him with her juices which were flowing freely. The she lowered herself down onto him as he watched wide-eyed.

‘I love you, Rosie.’ He breathed, just above a whisper, his voice still husky from his weeks of roaring as Caius Martius.

Her moans were quiet but persistent. Eventually she recovered enough to speak. ‘I love you too, Tom. Always.’

He sat up and, holding her tightly, began to lift his hips. Lips sucked on necks, teeth grazed soft yielding skin, groans began deep inside and emerged to join the wet sounds of their coupling. Phones buzzed and pinged and were ignored. The playlist moved on unheeded to Frank Sinatra, Bon Iver and all the songs that made him think of her. He wanted this memory to pack up and take, but he was barely conscious of the music. Rosie filled his senses; the living, breathing reality of the woman he loved.

Rosie was floating again. Would it ever lose its magic, this, in this place, with this man? And how on earth was she going to manage without it? She closed her eyes and let herself feel every sensation: his whiskers rubbing her neck, his tongue soothing the soreness they caused; his hands squeezing and tweaking and stroking all her hills and valleys; his thighs under her bottom when he was fully-sheathed; and his cock, his beautiful, big cock, stretching and filling her.

If Jimmy – the only one who knew – had asked her six months ago if she could love Tom more than she did then, she would have said it wasn’t possible. But now she knew differently: this was the most perfect moment of her life so far. As they came together, Tom saying her name over and over as she clung to his neck and he tried to bury himself inside her, Rosie began to believe that this was the beginning of the life of her dreams.

A life with the man she loved.


	18. Wouldn't It Be Nice?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn’t it be nice if we could wake up  
> In the morning when the day is new  
> And after having spent the day together  
> Hold each other close the whole night through

‘Why isn’t she answering?’ Tom was muttering to himself as he strode along the windswept and decidedly chilly streets of downtown Toronto. He was trying to text and call, in between using the GPS on his phone to locate a particular jeweller that Jessica had told him about. Rosie was due over for a visit in a couple of days and he was keen to shower her with attention and gifts, to make up for his absence. But his desire to find the store was being overshadowed by the fact that he had not heard from her all day. Not for almost twenty-four hours, in fact; since just before she set off for _The Thieving Magpies’_ gig at _The Hind Quarters_ last night, London time. It was unsettling, because they had been texting, ringing and emailing without fail, several times a day since he left. He had left several voicemails, but he was beginning to think something catastrophic had happened.

_‘You have to let go, Tom. How are you going to get on the plane with me attached to your chest?’_

_He sighed, the sound seeming to emanate from deep within his soul. ‘But I can’t, Rosie. I just can’t.’ He was holding her against him, his head resting on the top of hers, his nose nuzzling her hair. Now it had come to the moment of parting, he couldn’t seem to make himself relinquish his hold._

_Rosie was fighting the urge to cling on to him equally desperately. It was torture, this parting. There had been so many over the years, but he had always just left, with a hug, a kiss and a cheery wave. Rosie would hug, kiss and wave back, watch until he disappeared and then go and have a meltdown out of sight. This was very different. They were at his front door after they had spent twenty-four hours together uninterrupted; lovemaking, food, dancing, showering, sleeping, walking in the park, then more food and then more lovemaking. Now the hour of his leaving had come and neither of them could bear it._

_‘It won’t be too long, love. You have to go make your film. You’ll get so caught up in work, and you’ll be so busy, I’ll be over to see you before you know it. It’s only four weeks.’ She was trying to convince herself as much as him._

_Tom gave her one last squeeze and loosened his hold at last, then quickly ducked back in for a passionate kiss. Breathless and pink, Rosie swatted at him as he drew back again._

_‘Stop that now, or I’ll be shackling you to the bed.’_

_He pulled her in one last time, whispering, ‘Promises, promises.’ With the heaviest of heavy hearts, he gathered up his bags and descended the steps to where the car was waiting. Rosie stayed in the doorway: tearful embraces on the kerbside might be seen by prying eyes._

_He had reached his apartment in Toronto in the middle of the same evening, local time. For once, he had not slept during the flight. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her face and fresh surge of pain ran through his gut. Shattered, he did the minimum of unpacking and after a wash, went to bed. Before he put out the light, he texted Rosie and those in Toronto who needed to know he had arrived safe and sound, then he pulled the covers over himself and tried to get some rest._

_It was going to be a very long four weeks._

Rosie woke up with a start. Her neck was stiff and her back was screaming: hospital chairs, even in the ‘family rooms’ are pretty uncomfortable. She looked at her companions. Lauren appeared to be asleep, her head on her mother’s lap. Julia herself had her eyes closed but it wasn’t clear if she was actually awake or not. The room had the sterile friendliness of institutional decoration; all generic pictures and bland furnishings. Beeping and footsteps and rattling trollies played the soundtrack to their lives now. Less than a day ago she had been singing at the _Horse_ ; now here she was, hoping for some news, _any_ news about her dear friend.

_The show had been a cracker, the crowd stamping the floor and screaming for more as they left the stage for the last time. It had been a really good night until Rosie switched her phone back on: six missed calls from Arthur. She rang him back immediately, but it just rang until the voicemail cut in. When she listened to his messages she began to panic. He sounded slurred and frightened. Grabbing her things she had run down Broadway Parade to the flat, opening it with her own key and found him on the floor of the sitting room._

_While she waited for the ambulance, speaking softly as she squeezed his arm. Rosie thought about how he had been the last week or so. Paler – if that were possible – but also uncharacteristically quiet and sleepy. She knew he was dying, he had told her that some time ago. He had refused further chemo after the last lot failed to halt the growth of the tumours in his lymphatic system, but he had seemed his normal self, right up until the week before last. Now here he was, unconscious on the carpet and Rosie was terrified she wouldn’t have a chance to say goodbye._

Tom’s phone vibrated as he was talking to the assistant in the jeweller’s. Uncharacteristically, he interrupted their conversation and took the call in the hope that it was Rosie, but he was disappointed to hear his co-star’s voice instead.

‘Did you find it OK, hun?’

‘Yes, thanks Jess. I’m here now. Sorry, I have to go.’

‘Of course. Hope you find something you like. See you later, Tom.’

He hung up the phone and apologised to the man, explaining that he was waiting for a special someone to ring. Twenty minutes later he left the shop, happy with his purchases but deeply worried about Rosie. He decided to try one more time as he waited for his driver to pick him up: he was due back on set for the night-shoot. This time she answered.

‘Oh Tom.’

‘Rosie, my love, what’s happened? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?’

There was a silence on the other end and he thought for a moment they had been cut off. Then he heard her sobbing.

‘ROSIE?! What is it? What’s wrong?’

A deep breath being drawn in. ‘Arthur’s in hospital.’

‘Oh, my love. What happened?’

‘He collapsed last night. He tried to call me but I was on stage, and by the time I got to him he was unconscious.’

‘Oh my darling, how horrible.’

‘He hasn’t woken up yet. They say it’s probably a tumour in his neck restricting the blood flow to his brain. They say he might not wake up again.’

‘Oh my love.’ Tom closed his eyes. He had been afraid something like this would happen.

‘Sorry I didn’t ring sooner. You have to turn your phone off in the ambulance and I forgot to put it back on. I’ve been in a bit of a fog.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. Are you OK? Have you been there all this time? Are you on your own?’ He tried to picture her, sitting in some bare corridor or waiting room.

‘No, Arthur’s niece and her daughter – you know, Lauren – are here. I haven’t been home, but Jimmy came to Arthur’s and he locked up for me and then went home to get me a change of clothes. He’s been great, actually.’ She thought about his sweet face when he arrived a few minutes after she had dialled 999; how her usually panicky friend had been calm personified, taking over all the practical stuff that needed to be done so she could concentrate on Arthur.

The car pulled up at the kerb and Tom acknowledged the driver. ‘You are going to go home tonight, though, right? You need to get some rest, love. You sound exhausted.’

Rosie looked back at the hospital entrance. It was garishly bright, clashing with the darkness she felt creeping over her. He wasn’t going to survive this, she knew it. How could she leave him now? He had saved her, kept a roof over her head and food on her plate for twenty years. He was the proper father she never had; the kind uncle; the generous grandfather; he was _family_. He told her last week that he had put all of the business in her name now. He said she would inherit a majority stake when he died, sharing it with Lauren. He had to have known he didn’t have long.

_‘The shop is yours now, Rosie my dear. It has been yours for years, so all I’ve done is make it official. Do as you wish with it. I know it’s in safe hands.’_

‘I think I’ll stay a little longer, Tom. Just ‘til we hear some news.’

Tom’s mind was whirring as he was driven out to the set: he had to see people, explain things fast.

‘As you wish, darling, but try to lie down for a bit. You’ll be no use to him if you collapse too. I’ll ring you later when I get a chance.’

‘Alright. Don’t worry if I don’t answer, though. We are hoping we can go and sit with him soon.’ She said goodbye, missing him more intensely than ever.

The nurses were dubious about Rosie being by the bedside when she explained she was ‘just a friend’, but Julia insisted. ‘She is as good as his grand-daughter. That’s how he thought of her.’

Rosie was deeply grateful, and took Arthur’s hand as she sat in the hard plastic chair by his bed. His arm was as pale as the sheet; he seemed withered, reduced, lying there. Lauren was sobbing quietly behind her. Rosie thought she understood why: he looked dead already. All the life, everything that made him Arthur had already departed. The bright twinkling eyes; the kind smile; the ready laugh; the furrowed brow he would get when he didn’t know the answer to something. All that lay on that bed was the shell of the man they knew and loved.

‘We don’t think he’s in any pain,’ the doctor had said, ‘it’s as if he has just gone off into a very deep sleep.’

_As deaths go, this isn’t so bad, I suppose._

Julia’s voice jerked her out of her daydream. ‘I’m going to take Lauren home. I’ll be back later and then I think you should go home for a bit and get some rest, Rosie. You’ve been here nearly twenty-four hours.’ Rosie shrugged, but embraced Lauren and her mother before they slipped out.

Alone in the small side ward with Arthur, she put her cheek on his hand. ‘Oh Arthur, I wish I had told you how much you mean to me.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I could never repay you for everything, and now I’ve left it too late to even try. You saved me, Arthur. You saved me.’ She cried quietly into the bedspread.

Julia returned a couple of hours later, to find Rosie fast asleep and bent over leaning on the bed, her head next to Arthur’s arm.  She woke her gently and persuaded her to go home, promising to ring if anything changed.  As she left the building, Rosie switched her phone back on: there were four texts and three voicemails, all but one from Tom.

The other voicemail was from Jimmy:

**_‘Hi babe. Just to let you know I went over to the shop and put up a sign saying it would be closed until further notice. I checked upstairs and switched everything off and so on, so no need for you to go there for now. Hope you are OK. See you soon.’_ **

She found the bus stop and sat down between a smiling black woman and a tired-looking middle-aged man. Then she opened Tom’s messages.

**_‘Hi love. I imagine you are still with Arthur. I’ll try again next turn around.’_ **

**_‘Hello again love. I hope there is some news for you. Ring me when you can. I will be away from here by 8am your time.’_ **

**_‘Hi darling. Just had to try once more. I can’t concentrate today. I stood on Jessica’s foot just now. I love you, Rosie. I hate that you are there going through this and I’m all the way over here. I miss you. I’m so sorry I’m not there with you. Call me when you can.’_ **

She read his texts; they were similar, no doubt he hoped she would read them instead if her phone was on silent. It started to rain very hard, and for the first time, she took in her surroundings properly. It wasn’t particularly cold, but the rain would make the rest of the journey unpleasant. Rosie looked at her watch in disbelief: it was indeed almost twenty-four hours since she ran up the stairs to find Arthur unconscious. Spending most of the day in a windowless room she had no concept of the time. It was still too early to ring Tom, so she texted him to say what was happening and then got on the bus home.

The next day Rosie had no real memory of her journey. She woke up in bed, in her undies. She must have been too tired to do anything more, but the entire process had apparently been carried out on autopilot from when she boarded the bus at the Royal Free. She lay looking at the ceiling for a moment, hardly daring to check her phone in case she had missed a call from Julia. Eventually she summoned up the courage and saw there were no notifications at all; everyone had allowed her to sleep. It was almost 8, so she tried Tom.

‘Darling.’ He sounded relieved to hear her voice.

‘Hi love. How’s it going?’

‘It’s fine. Any news?’

‘Nothing overnight. I’ll call Julia in a minute, but she said she’d let me know if anything happened.’

‘You’re at home?’

‘Yes. In bed, in fact. I didn’t think I’d sleep, but I did.’

‘Good. Right. Now. I’m coming.’

Rosie frowned. What was he on about?

‘I’m on the way to the airport. I land at 8pm your time. Which hospital is he in?’

‘What? Tom? What about the film?’

‘I’m taking compassionate leave. They can shoot around me for a few days. I’m not letting you be alone through all this. Now, which hospital?’

‘The Royal Free. Ward 8 North. Tom?’

‘Yes love?’

‘I love you so much.’

‘I know. And I love you too much not to be there.’

Tom had almost crossed the Atlantic when Arthur slipped away. Rosie was there, holding his hand. Lauren and Julia were in the room, and all three of them had said their goodbyes, hoping that he could hear them. His life had suddenly dwindled down in the last forty-eight hours. His breathing had been slowing gradually ever since he was admitted, the pressure in his brain increasing and compressing the respiratory centre in the stem. He had signed a DNR order sometime earlier and as he was known to be in the terminal stages of cancer, no heroic measures had been taken. Julia slipped out and called the nurse when they realised what had happened.

Jimmy arrived at the hospital soon afterwards, devastated to learn he was just too late. He handed Rosie an envelope addressed to her which he had found on Arthur’s desk when he popped over there the day before. She looked at it, turned it over. On the back it said ‘To be opened in the event of my death’.

‘I think he knew he didn’t have long. Looks like he had something to tell you.’

Rosie felt numb. Ever since she saw the missed calls two nights before, she had been sure that Arthur was about to die, and now he had she wasn’t sure how she felt. She loved him dearly, but she knew he was ready to go. She went back to her chair in the family room and opened the envelope, Jimmy by her side. It was dated just three weeks ago.

**_Dearest Rosie_ **

**_If you are reading this then I’m gone. I shall be glad, no doubt. I never expected, and for a few years never wanted, to live this long. So please don’t be too sad, my dear one._ **

**_I lost so many good friends and lovers in the eighties. How I avoided it I don’t know – I was no less promiscuous, no less reckless than any of them. When my wonderful Gerald died I nearly gave up. His death was so drawn-out, so painful; he just wasted away to nothing. I loved him so much, Rosie. I didn’t think I could go on, after watching that, but somehow I did. I bought the shop and found something to live for._ **

**_Now it is yours; yours and Lauren’s. I have probably already told you, if I have had time. I intend to, anyway, but the best laid plans…_ **

**_Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. Lauren’s share is small because she has other money from me. I have been putting cash into a trust for her for years. Her deadbeat father won’t have saved and she needs a nest-egg for university. She doesn’t need the income because she has that._ **

**_You are the sole signatory on the accounts, and I have already made over the business to you both. That means that you won’t have to freeze anything. The only things you will have to wait for are the cash I am leaving you, because that is in my own account, and the property. But once the will goes through probate it will all be yours, love. The flat, too, because that is 100% yours, Rosie. Live there if you want to, or rent it out, whatever you wish._ **

**_Now, if I know you, Rosie, you will be angry with me for doing this. But I had to, and you deserve it, my love, because you see, you saved me. I was spiralling down when you took the job. I needed you, your youth and beauty and intelligence and enthusiasm, and so did the shop. You made the business what it is, so you deserve every penny, my darling girl. I know it is in the safest of hands._ **

**_And so, by the way, are you. That man adores you, and he will love you and keep you safe. This is important, Rosie. DO NOT LET THE BUSINESS STOP YOU FROM BEING WITH TOM. I lost the chance of that kind of life when Gerald died. Don’t throw it away, love, if you love him as much as I think you do. As you have for so very long, I think. It won’t be easy, being his girlfriend, I know. I’ve seen what goes on these days, but I trust you and Tom to handle it well. And he loves you so much that I am sure he will do whatever it takes to keep you from harm._ **

**_So please, if you have to, hire someone to run the shop. If that doesn’t work, sell. Do not feel any obligation to keep it going on my account. I have given you this gift because you deserve to have the choice._ **

**_Now, go, be with your man._ **

**_Arthur xxx_ **

Rosie put the letter down and fell into Jimmy’s arms. He picked it up and read it over her shoulder, a grin he couldn’t control breaking out as he did.

‘Good old Arthur!’ he whispered.

Rosie was stunned. He had told her about the business, about making her the signatory and sharing it with Lauren, but the rest of the inheritance was a complete shock. She hung onto Jimmy’s skinny shoulders, trying to process it all. They stayed like that for a while, until Julia and Lauren came in and joined them.

‘Did you know about Arthur’s will, Julia?’

‘Yes, Rosie, I did. He told me a couple of years ago that he intended to leave the shop to you. It seemed like the right choice to me. Lauren is the only one in the family who is interested, and she is way too young. None of the rest of us needs the money or the hassle, and you are the expert, after all.

‘Well, it’s very generous of you to be so gracious. It’s a lot of money. I mean the flat _alone_ …’

Julia interrupted. ‘But Rosie, it was _his_ , and he wanted _you_ to have it. That’s all that matters.’

‘This letter,’ she waved it, ‘it’s so… _Arthur_ ; kind, and generous and thoughtful. He was so special.’

‘That he was,’ Julia smiled. ‘I bet he gave you some advice, right?’ She reached into her handbag and pulled out an envelope identical to Rosie’s. ‘This one is for Lauren. He gave it to me the week before last. I guess he knew.’

Rosie smiled through the tears still falling. _Thoughtful and kind to the very last._ Jimmy nudged her gently, and she followed his gaze to the doorway. A lean figure dressed in black filled the space.

‘Hello my darling.’


	19. My Legs Are Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knocked down too soon  
> Like a skittle on the lanes  
> The man who took the wrong stop  
> From life’s fast moving train  
> Goodbye sweet angel  
> Sail away on teary seas  
> Tattoo the times we had  
> On my memory

‘Oh my love, I so wanted you to be with me, but not like this, not because of this.’

Rosie had crossed the room at a run and now clung to Tom like never before, desperate for the support of his love.

‘He’s gone, Tom. My dear friend has gone.’

Tom said nothing, just squeezed a little tighter. No words would help, and he had none for her. They stood, just holding each other for several minutes. Julia excused herself to go and arrange to get the death certificate.  She was Arthur’s official next of kin as well as his executor and thus responsible for all the official matters surrounding his death. She was back in a short time; Tom and Rosie had not moved. Julia told them all that they should go home, as obviously there was nothing more to be done here.

Rosie felt lost. For so long she had functioned with three main crutches in her life, three friends who supported her through the pain of her unrequited love: Jimmy, her music and Arthur. Now her life had been turned upside down and she no longer needed to lean so heavily on those supports, but they still meant so much, and to lose Arthur now seemed like some cruel joke. And the generosity of his bequest made her feel worse: she could never repay his kindness. She owed him everything.

‘I love you, Tom. Thank you so much for coming.’

‘I had to. It’s what you do for the person you love, isn’t it? Drop everything to be beside them when they need you. Now, let me take you home.’

In the end, they just dropped Jimmy off at Hazelville Road and continued to Tom’s house, almost doing a complete loop as the hospital was just a few streets away. They stood in the hall of his house next to the bags she had already packed for Canada. _No real need for them now. That trip’s off._ Tom had brought no luggage with him; he just had his shoulder bag as he had set off directly from the set. The only thing he needed that he hadn’t had on him was his passport which his assistant had been sent to fetch. As he was travelling home there was no need for anything more and time had been of the essence.

He held Rosie tightly to him, felt her lean into him and melt. This was why he had come; she needed him, if only for this. Rosie sighed into his chest; she was so glad of his presence, his warmth engulfing her. She had been looking forward to visiting him so much, and the dawning realisation that the trip would have to be cancelled had been an additional sadness piled onto the grief of Arthur’s loss. At least she had him for the moment, and she needed him to lean on now more than ever. Tom looked at his watch; it was 10.30 and he had been awake for over thirty-six hours. No wonder he felt as if his limbs were made of lead.

‘Let’s go to bed darling. We’re both exhausted.’

Rosie nodded and allowed him to carry her bags up to his bedroom, following mutely, too tired and numb to speak. They undressed, slid under the sheets and reached for each other.

The next morning Rosie was dimly aware of Tom getting up to go for his run. She rolled over and began to weep silently as the reality of what had happened hit home afresh. She tried to marshal her thoughts about what was to be done. Julia was making all the arrangements for the funeral. She had briefly mentioned that she would like Rosie to choose the music for the ceremony. Art had already contacted a humanist celebrant to conduct proceedings, apparently. In an attempt to focus, Rosie pondered her choices; Arthur loved Baroque music, so Purcell and perhaps some Handel? She had begun to run through some ideas when she heard the front door closing quietly, and moments later she heard Tom’s voice from the doorway.

‘Are you awake, my love?’

She turned to look at him, his silhouette just visible against the light from the hallway which was just climbing the stairs.

‘Yes. Come back to bed.’

‘I’m all sweaty.’

‘Good.’

He chuckled softly and quickly divested himself of his running gear. As he slid in she pulled him against her and lost herself in him.

‘I have missed you so much, my darling,’ he murmured against her neck, ‘I never felt so homesick before.’

Rosie felt her heart swell with her love for him. She had missed him too of course, but she was more accustomed to his absence. In the days following his departure she had adjusted back into her Tom-free existence, tempered though it was by their frequent texts, emails and regular video calls. She could manage, but nothing helped with the physical ache that the distance between them caused. She couldn’t help but feel a little satisfaction that being away from her hadn’t been easy for him.

‘Show me.’

So he did. He held her and he kissed her until neither of them could breathe. He closed his eyes and simply felt his way; he allowed his hands to reacquaint themselves with her curves, revelling in the way all the softness of her fit so perfectly against him. He tasted every inch of her skin, finally settling his mouth against her centre so she forgot her worries for a while, transported by his touch and his love. And when at last they were joined once again, Tom knew he was really home.

He stayed where he was, whispering softly in her ear, until he softened and slipped out. He told her how much he loved her, how making the movie was great but that the nights were long and painful without her there to hold him. How he had always managed before, however far away from home or for however long, but that now it was different. Now he had someone who meant more to him than anything else.

‘I have to go back on Monday, you realise that.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. This had been the weekend they had supposed to spend together in Toronto. As he was here he could stay but only for that time. ‘I have to get back to work then too.’ She thought about the orders probably piling up on the website. The shop had been due to be closed while she was away anyway, but she needed to go in and get things working again.

But not until after the weekend.

Rosie’s phone rang while they were eating a subdued breakfast, both pondering gloomily the renewed separation to come. It was Julia.

‘Hi love. I’ve just finished at the funeral directors’. Arthur has paid for it all already, organised it, the lot.’

‘Typical. Do we have a date yet?’

‘Yes, but it’s not until the week after next. The eighteenth at 2.30, at Hendon. There is a backlog at the crematorium. Lots of deaths recently, apparently.’

‘OK.’ Rosie stared ahead blankly. It was real, then. He was dead.

‘They need the music choices a week in advance, love. That alright?’

‘Yes, of course. Where…?’

‘I’ll email you. You send the details to the Co-op. I’ll give you the guy’s email.’ Julia paused, aware of a silence at the other end of the line. ‘Are you OK, Rosie?’

She thought for a moment, then she looked at Tom, his anxious face regarding her kindly, his thumb rubbing over the back of her hand gently. ‘Not really, no, but I will be, I think, Julia. It’s just that I keep forgetting for a moment, then…’

‘I know what you mean. Lauren is in a bit of a state, but then they were very close and she’s never lost anyone before.’

‘What about you? Are you OK, Julia?’

‘No. But like you, I will be. Give that gorgeous man of yours a kiss from me and I’ll be in touch.’

Later, after he had sat next to Rosie as she surfed the web from the sofa and helped her choose the pieces and then the exact recordings to be played, Tom went up to the bedroom and fetched the parcels from the jewellers’ that he had carried back from Canada with him. He sat back down by her side and cleared his throat, suddenly nervous.

‘I bought these the day before I left Toronto. I wanted to give you something to show you how much I was missing you.’

He handed her an exquisitely-wrapped box and watched as she opened it. Rosie’s eyes filled with tears immediately, making it hard for her to make out the details of the gold earrings. They were in the shape of roses, and she put them on straight away. Tom nodded his approval when she turned her head to show him, then he handed her a second box. Already speechless, Rosie was stunned when she saw the beautiful bracelet, also decorated with rose motifs. She allowed Tom to fasten it on her wrist and then she reached for him and they kissed until their breath ran out. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she wouldn’t let go for quite some time. 

Friday continued in much the same vein, not getting more than a few feet apart at any moment, mostly being in each other’s arms. They did venture out on Saturday, driving over through the heavy March drizzle to look at the crematorium where the funeral would be. That threw a pall over the afternoon which didn’t lift until they had medicated themselves with home-made pizza and _The Jungle Book._ Rosie found herself torn between wanting to relish every second of Tom’s presence and the pain of her grief which flared up newly-fresh at regular intervals.

All too soon, Sunday was over and Tom had to head to the airport. Faisal – his driver from the Donmar run – had collected him from Heathrow on Thursday night and he was there before dawn on Monday for the return journey. As before they stood in the hall, holding each other so tight that respiration was proving a challenge.

‘I’ll be back next week, love. For the service.’

‘You can’t keep doing this, Tom, you’ll wear yourself out.’

‘I’ll be here. It’s already agreed.’ His voice was quiet but undeniable; she knew better than to argue. Then he was gone and Rosie faced up to the fact that she had to go and open the shop without Arthur.

The time between Tom’s return to Canada and the funeral passed very quickly for her; she was very busy at work, with a backlog of orders on the website and a flood of condolence messages by email, post and in person. Arthur was well-liked and admired in the antiquarian book world, and he had many friends in the gay community as well. It seemed the chapel was going to be pretty full.

‘Tom, I think you need to tell Luke about the funeral,’ Rosie said on the Thursday evening when they Face Timed.

‘He already knows, in case I get papped at the airports. What makes you say that?’

‘It looks like there are going to be a lot of people there, and someone is bound to recognise you. Maybe we shouldn’t be too close together.’

‘Is that what you want?’ He held his breath, trying to gauge her expression in the poor light.

Rosie thought about it for a few moments. Did she want to be standing there, sitting there through that ordeal without his arm around her? ‘I don’t think I do, no.’

‘But what if it does get into the media? Are you ready for that?’

‘Are you, Tom? I mean, what are they going to think about me, about you choosing to be with _me_?’

Never had Tom felt the miles between them so keenly as right then; he wanted to reach for her and pull her to him. ‘I want to shout it out loud; I want to paint it in letters a hundred feet high on the Great Wall of China. I love you, Rosie Rhodes! I want the world to know and I don’t care what anybody thinks.’

Her fingers stroked the screen, desperate for contact with his real, non-digital cheek. ‘I love you too, Thomas Hiddleston,’ she whispered, her tears visible to him and his to her. After they finished their call, Rosie reached for her notepad and tried to start the eulogy she had been asked to write. Julia had put it to her, and after thinking it over she felt she had to make an attempt; it would be her chance to thank him for all he had done, even if he wouldn’t be there to hear. She still wasn’t sure if she would be capable of reading it at the service, but she was going to try.

**_‘I first met Arthur Jones when I was a book-mad but hard-up student who visited ‘Broadway Rare Books’ regularly, mainly to browse. Only a handful of the volumes he carried were within my budget, but I did try to find something I could afford to actually buy, every now and then, to justify the hours I spent there, and with his help, I did. Then, one wonderful day nearly twenty years ago, he put a sign in the window asking for applications to be his assistant. He told me – many years later – that I was the only applicant because I approached him ten minutes after he put the sign up and he gave me the job immediately. That was a pivotal moment in my life, and I have never looked back._ **

**_You see, Arthur saved my life that day. I was drifting towards my BA with no idea what I wanted to do after graduation; no plan, no prospects. Arthur allowed me to indulge my bibliophilia and, as he gradually increased my hours, to keep myself in food and lodging. We didn’t always see eye-to-eye: I had to drag him kicking and screaming into the digital age, for example. Now the internet business makes up the lion’s share of our turnover and soon after we opened the website he graciously admitted I had been right about that! And I could never cure him of his addiction to buying job-lots sight-unseen. We did find some gems that way, as he never stopped reminding me, but 90% of it was crap, Arthur darling._ **

**_But most of all, he became my dear, dear friend. I owe him more than I could ever repay and now I will never get the chance. Arthur bore his illness lightly, never bemoaned his fate, never broke down. I know he felt he had been the lucky one, when so many of his friends died early. I know that many of you here have, like me, benefitted from his help, his generosity and his friendship. He once told me that he had survived his grief thanks to Shakespeare and Cocteau. Well, I suppose I owe it to him to do the same, although I think I might choose to combine the Bard with Dylan Thomas myself._ **

**_Arthur Jones did ‘go gentle into that good night’ and he didn’t ‘rage against the dying of the light’, but then, that was how he had lived his life: taking nothing, leaving much to treasure behind him: memories of kind words and steadfast friendship; of a scholarly mind and the heart of a poet; of the gentlest soul I have ever known.’_ **

A week later Rosie stood and delivered Arthur’s final farewell to a packed house: people unable to get a seat stood at the rear of the grey but nevertheless welcoming chapel and filled the foyer behind as well. Arthur had been carried in to _Dido’s Lament,_ and after an intermission of _Since By Man_ from _The Messiah,_ Rosie’s eulogy and an address by a representative of The Terence Higgins Trust (of which Arthur had been a founding supporter), he left them to the strains of _If God Be For Us,_ also from his favourite Handel oratorio.

As the congregation filed out Rosie stood just outside the door with Tom, Julia and Lauren to greet them, watery sunshine filtering through the bare trees. There were a few flickers of recognition from one or two people and Rosie was grateful that Tom had made a point of holding her hand tight throughout the service and afterwards. There was a small reception at the _White Horse_ for close friends and family and she introduced him to everyone who asked. When the last hug had been shared, the last anecdote told, the last wistful silence passed, Rosie felt she had done her beloved friend justice.

‘You did him proud, darling girl,’ Tom said, kissing the top of her head as he pulled her into his arms.

Julia patted her on the arm. ‘You were so brave, and the music was perfect. Thank you so much, love.’

Rosie shrugged, too worn out to speak. Jimmy’s hug was the last before she got into Tom’s car and they headed for his house for just one brief night together. He had only arrived that morning on the red-eye and had no choice but to head right back the next day. Tom was finding it hard to contemplate. He had missed her horribly and the thought of another month of being apart, and then only a flying visit for the Olivier theatre awards was killing him. As they lay together, he asked her the question he had been saving until after the funeral.

‘What will you do with the business, do you think?’

‘I don’t know yet, really. I want to keep it going, but it’s a lot of work, and a big tie. I want to keep singing, as well, but then there’s you.’

‘Me?’ He tried to look nonchalant, but his heart was pounding fit to burst.

‘I don’t quite know how to run a shop, stay in the band _and_ jet off to see my glamorous movie-star boyfriend whenever I want to; at least, not yet.’ She bopped him playfully on the nose. ‘I might have to employ a manager or something, but I need to do the sums. I mean, the shop is my living, after all.’

‘I understand that, and I wouldn’t want to interfere in any way, but…’ Tom stopped, not sure if it was too soon to say what was on his mind.

‘ _But?’_

Tom swallowed and decided that now was as good a time as any. ‘I need you with me, Rosie. I used to be able to cope with being away from home, but that was when home was just my house or London, or England. But now home is you, and I am not coping with being away from you. Not at all.’

She kissed him, soft, deep and long. She had surmised that much from his emails and his manner when they spoke, and most of all from the way he clung to her when they were together. She needed more time though, to work it all out. So much had changed and she could not make any hasty decisions. Tom watched her face, following the emotions as they passed across her features, understanding that she had to be cautious for now.

‘I can wait a little longer, of course. I know it’s too soon for you to drop everything. But promise you will come and share my holiday after _Crimson Peak_ wraps? We can go wherever you wish!’

She nodded happily, trying to dismiss the small but persistent voice which was warning that things might be about to get more complicated if just one of the funeral guests were to tweet about who they saw that afternoon at Hendon Crematorium. And who they were with.


	20. So Far Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t help to know you’re just time away  
> Long ago I reached for you and there you stood  
> Holding you again would only do me good  
> How I wish I could  
> But you’re so far away

Pain.

Dragging, squeezing, grinding pain.

Just three hours ago she had been singing, happy, having fun onstage with her friends; now here she was alone in the dark, woken by this awful, unrelenting, horrifying agony.

_What the fuck was it?_

She became aware of a sticky dampness between her legs and her confusion deepened.  ‘I don’t have periods,’ she thought ‘I’m on the mini-pill… I _can’t_ be….’

The pain was worse, much worse now. She knew she needed Jimmy, but the door seemed impossibly far away and when she tried to call out, her voice was weak, gutless. She tried to turn over to get up, but that made the pain a thousand times worse and she screamed.

‘Rosie? You OK?’ Jimmy’s voice was muffled and sleepy through the wall. ‘What’s the matter?’

Another wave of agony, another loud groan and she heard his door open.

‘Jeez, Rosie! The blood!’

In the light from the hallway she could see the dark stain soaking through the bedclothes, and then things began to go grey, then black.

_Rosie slipped her arms into the dress, straightening the fabric over her shoulders and turned to look in the full-length mirror in Tom’s dressing-room. Despite their hopes and her best efforts, a trip to Toronto hadn’t been possible so far. However, Tom was back in London yet again, this time on a scheduled weekend visit to attend the Oliviers. Rosie regarded her reflection critically; the pleated pale green and gold silk shimmered in the bright overhead lights. Emma had persuaded her to try the designer and helped her choose this gown. She wasn’t sure about it; it was longer and more revealing of cleavage than her usual stage wardrobe. She heard a sound to her left and Tom’s approving purr suggested he liked it._

_‘You look amazing, stunning.’_

_‘Up to scratch? I don’t want to embarrass you.’ She was chewing her lip. She glammed up for gigs, loved doing her hair and make-up, but this was different. She was opening herself up to the scrutiny of not just the media, but Tom’s very interested and very ‘passionate’ fans. And all the cosmetics and fancy dresses in the world couldn’t change her age. Tom slipped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. Their eyes met in the mirror._

_‘I am the luckiest man in London tonight.’_

_‘Only London?’ she teased, turning to go back into the bedroom to finish getting ready._

_A couple of tweets about Arthur’s funeral had created a small flurry of activity in the days following, according to Luke. Some of the more determined and forensic bloggers on Tumblr had identified Arthur, Rosie, and Tom’s connection to her as a former flatmate. It seemed that this information satisfied everybody and there had been no knock-on effect on the shop or the website._

_After a rather fraught conference call with Tom and Luke, Rosie had accepted Tom’s invitation to accompany him to the Royal Opera House for the awards ceremony. He was incandescent with excitement; he was ready, more than ready to tell the world how much he loved her. She was nervous, but at the same time she hated all the sneaking around, and if she and Tom had a future together, then this was a step that had to be taken. Rosie suddenly felt the weight of the moment and found herself shaking so much that she couldn’t fasten her earrings – those special rose ones he had bought in Toronto for her. She was about to swear when Tom’s skilled fingers took them from her and slipped them in smoothly._

_‘It’s OK love. I’ll be with you the whole time. Whatever happens, just hold onto me and stay by my side.’_

_‘Are you sure about this? I mean, I could go in the back way, or…’_

_Tom shook his head brusquely. ‘No. You are my girl, and we are doing this together or not at all.’_

_Covent Garden was dream-like. Their arrival set off a fusillade of flash bulbs and a cacophony of shouting and screaming. Rosie was reminded of her jokey conversation with Tom about the red carpet after he was cast in Unrelated; here she was, but with him, by his side at last. He guided her through the madness with charm and grace, keeping her on his arm or very close the entire time. He introduced her to fans and the press alike as his girlfriend, and the next seventy-two hours were a rollercoaster ride of phone calls, emails and regular updates from Luke and his team. Tom issued an official statement to the effect that he and Rosie had been friends for over ten years, and dating since Christmas. Some of the American TV channels went a little over the top with their reporting, but for the most part the news was given a warm reception._

_As Luke had predicted, it was mostly only the very youngest section of Tom’s following who objected to her, mainly on the basis of her age and size. She was not tiny; she was, as Tom described her approvingly, ‘woman-shaped’, and she was forty. There were a few nasty conversations on Twitter and other social media, but as Luke put it, ‘these are the fans who consider Tom to be their skanky-old-man-crush’. Luke’s team monitored the traffic and sent Rosie some very nice quotes illustrating how glad people were that he looked so happy and in love, and with someone whom he knew and who suited him so well._

_There was some hate-mail at the shop and on the website, but not as much as Rosie had expected._

Paramedics were talking, saying her name over and over, asking questions that made no sense to her; fingers tapping her cheek, the back of her hand; she felt needles and tubes and a mask. Rosie tried to stay awake but the pain was so bad and it didn’t hurt when she closed her eyes and drifted off. Movement roused her; being lifted onto a trolley, then out into the cold night air. In an ambulance again; the smell, the harsh light, and she was taken back to that terrible night with Arthur and the fear and grief.  She reached out and Jimmy’s hand was there. She tried to focus on his face, but it looked strange to her: pale, old, frightened.

‘Jimmy?’

‘I’m here love.’ A squeeze of the hand.

‘Don’t tell Tom. He’ll want to fly back.’

‘OK, I won’t. Not for the moment, anyway.’

Jimmy wasn’t sure that he would keep that promise. If this was what it looked like, Tom had a right to know. He was scared; Rosie looked white, diminished, lying on the narrow bed and the ambulance people appeared anxious. The sirens and blue lights suggested they thought she was in trouble, and there had been _so much blood_. The ride to the Royal Free was a mercifully short one, but Rosie became distressed when she realised where they were. Jimmy held her hand and spoke quietly to her until she was whisked away from him into the Accident and Emergency department; he was sent off to see the receptionist and hand over all Rosie’s details.

The time he spent waiting to be allowed to see her was the worst in his life. Three times he brought up Tom’s name and almost texted him, but he knew Rosie was right. He would want to fly home again and he was wearing himself thin on the movie as it was. Another overnight transatlantic flight was not a good idea, and what could he do if he was here, really? Finally a serious-looking nurse fetched Jimmy and he was able to sit in a hard chair next to Rosie. She had a drip in her arm and she still looked white as snow; her face had the distant, dreamy expression of the opiate-filled.

‘What have they said, love?’

‘It seems I was pregnant. Not any more, though…’ A racking sob burst from her, breaking Jimmy’s heart.

‘Oh love.’ He stood and took her in his arms, allowing her to cling to his shoulders. Once she had recovered she leaned back and continued.

‘I’m still bleeding, so I might have to have an operation, you know, to make sure it’s all… gone.’

More sobs. Two nurses breezed into the cubicle with a bag of blood, and after doing all the checks, attached it to Rosie’s arm.

‘This should make you feel better,’ one of them said in a jolly tone of voice.

Jimmy clenched his jaw, wanting to bitch-slap her. Then he remembered this was A & E, and not the specialist ward. The staff here weren’t necessarily used to dealing with this. When the women had left, he took Rosie’s hand in his again.

‘You know, you should tell Tom. After all, he is…’

‘No! I don’t want him dragging back over here _again_!’ She shook her head. ‘I will tell him, but not yet.’

After what seemed to Jimmy like hours, during which she dozed and mumbled between periods of lucidity, and endured a few visits from nurses and doctors to check, examine and dose her, Rosie was sent to a Gynae ward for the rest of the night. She had stopped haemorrhaging, and as long as that remained the case, and her haemoglobin levels were high enough, she would be allowed home in the morning. Jimmy went back to the flat, returning when she rang to tell him she was being discharged.

She texted Tom from the taxi to say she was feeling rough so she had to miss their regular lunch for her/breakfast for him FaceTime call. When they got to Hazelville Road Jimmy helped her into the bed he had cleaned up when he got home in the early hours. Rosie lay down, turned to face the wall and stayed there for eighteen hours.

_The week after the Oliviers, Hugh paid a visit to Broadway Books. He had been a regular customer over the years, and often spent entire Saturday afternoons roaming the stacks. He looked serious and Rosie feared that he was going to ask her to leave the band, perhaps because of the recent media frenzy, especially when he glanced testily at the two young women who were staring unashamedly at her from the history section. She braced herself as he approached the checkout desk. After the usual greetings he regarded her quizzically._

_‘What are your plans for this place, Rosie? I mean, with you and Tom being, you know…’His deep voice was soft, studiously discreet._

_‘Honestly Hugh, I don’t know.’ She tried not to look too relieved that her worst fears had not been realised.  ‘I want to keep it going of course, but it is a total tie. I am practically running it single-handed along with the online business. Lauren - Arthur’s great-niece - comes in on Saturdays, but otherwise it’s just me.’_

_‘Have you thought of taking on a manager?’_

_‘Why? Are you looking for a new career?’ she quipped, and began to chuckle until she saw his expression._

_‘Actually, I would be interested.’ He looked nervous, but determined, a face Rosie recognised from a hundred gigs. ‘Helen has been promoted and I feel I am in a rut. I need a change and I love this place, Rosie. So, if you do decide to hire someone, please consider me.’_

_‘Would you have time, Hugh, with the band and everything?’_

_‘I doubt it would be worse than it is now, with all the marking and prep I have to do.’_

_‘No long holidays…’_

_‘They are a bit of a myth, you know. I have to work through most of them, doing summer-schools, planning and curriculum preparation. I’d really love to work here. Really.’ He looked around, took a deep breath. ‘It feels so… comfortable.’_

_Rosie promised him she would bear it in mind. Secretly she was very excited: the sums seemed to indicate that if she wished she could afford to employ a manager, especially if she let out the flat. And Hugh would be perfect. She knew he could do it, but it was a massive decision: she had worked behind this desk for twenty years, and now Arthur had entrusted the future of the business to her. She had to take time to consider all aspects carefully._

The Gynaecologist at the follow-up clinic was kind but firm: Rosie had to change her contraception.

‘But it was a one-off, an emergency. My friend was dying, I was at the hospital, then my boyfriend came back to be with me; the whole thing … it just went out of my head!’

‘But Miss Rhodes, the mini-pill requires precision, one slip-up and you’ve seen what can happen.’

‘I’ve never forgotten before. And I suppose I didn’t think it would be that easy to fall. Not at my age.’

‘Ah, but that’s when it’s dangerous; you get complacent.’

‘But I’ve been on it for nearly twenty years, without a problem. This was just bad luck.’

‘I understand that, but this might be the time to reconsider, look at the other options. You say your boyfriend is away?’

‘Well yes, at the moment. He has to go abroad to work sometimes, but not all the time.’

‘Then there are other choices for you. Do you intend to have children?’

Rosie looked at the woman: tall, about fifty, blonde and beautiful in an austere way. Then she glanced around the cramped room, one wall covered in children’s drawings.

‘Those are my son’s.’ Rosie couldn’t stop her eyebrows from rising. ‘Yes; he’s five. I got complacent.’ She grinned at the memory. Rosie suddenly knew what she wanted.

‘It’s a new- _ish_ relationship. We haven’t discussed it, not specifically, but I know he wants a family. So do I.’ Rosie paused, scared to ask what she had to know. ‘Is that going to be possible?’

The doctor crossed her legs, leaned back in her chair and smiled, spreading her hands. ‘No reason at all why not. You are healthy, and a first pregnancy miscarriage isn’t unusual, not in the least.’ Her face became serious. ‘Stop the pill, today, and don’t use anything else. Eat well, don’t drink more than the odd glass of beer or wine, avoid stress and have as much unprotected sex as you can. It’ll happen.’

‘So there’s no reason to think the miscarriage was caused by a problem?’

‘No way to tell. Everything inside is normal and functioning well. But you don’t need me to tell you that time is against you, so if you and he love each other, go for it.’ She smiled broadly. ‘I mean, he must be fertile. You only missed…’ she looked at Rosie’s notes, ‘… _two pills_ , was it?’

On the way home on the bus, her thoughts returned to Tom, so far away. He knew something was wrong when they spoke the day after she got home from the hospital, but she fobbed him off with a story of a virus. She didn’t want him to hear it like that, afraid that he would try to come home again. And anyway, that kind of news should be given in person. It was only a week now until she flew out to meet him before their holiday. She was excited, but also dreading the conversation, or more accurately, his reaction.

*********

Still half-asleep after the long flight, and bewildered by the noise and bustle of the airport, it took Rosie a few seconds to process what she was seeing. It was Tom, half-hidden by a massive bunch of cream and yellow roses, holding up a hand-written cardboard sign saying ‘The Most Beautiful Bookseller in London’. She hadn’t been expecting him to meet her in person, since he had told her he would be working, and in any case, it was rather a public place for their reunion. But, true to his word about wanting to shout it from the rooftops, there he was. By the time he stopped kissing her, every phone in the arrivals hall was trained on them, she was breathless and his eyes were full of tears.

The drive back to his rented apartment in the city was lovely, their hands entwined, his voice whispering sweet nothings and the occasional dirty suggestion in her ear. But Rosie was steeling herself for what was to come once they were alone.  She had to tell him straight away, before she lost her nerve. So, after he had given her a quick tour and poured them both a glass of champagne, she asked him to sit down next to her.

‘You look serious,’ he said, smiling uncertainly. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I have something to tell you, Tom. I wanted to wait until we were together.’ She was dismayed to feel tears pricking at her eyes.  Gritting her teeth, she began, determined to get through it.

‘When Arthur was in the hospital, as you know, I was there most of the time, and then you came and we went to your place, and…’ She faltered.

‘Yes, love..?’

‘I forgot my pills for two days.’ She was horrified to see hope and a hint of joy in his eyes. She continued quickly. ‘I thought I’d be OK, at my age, but it seems I wasn’t.’ Tom seemed to realise that her face was too solemn for this to be good news. She took a juddering breath. ‘I didn’t know I was pregnant until the miscarriage. I’m so sorry, Tom.’

He wrapped his long arms around her and they cried together for a long time. ‘When you said you were ill, a couple of weeks ago…?’ She nodded, felt his jaw tighten against her head. ‘You should have told me.’ His tone was reproachful.

‘And what would you have done?’

‘Been with you, where I belonged.’

She grimaced. ‘That’s why I didn’t tell you. You had already flown over three times. You can’t keep doing that, and there was nothing you could have done anyway.’

‘Nothing except be there beside you.’ She pulled back and looked up into his eyes, so sad and beautiful. He kissed her forehead softly. ‘I am so sorry, my love. So sorry you had to go through that on your own.’

‘Well, I wasn’t alone; Jimmy was there, he held my hand, but yes, I missed you.’

 ‘Are you OK now? I mean, you know…’ He was blushing, embarrassed.

She cupped his cheek. ‘I am fine. The doctors worried at first because I bled a lot for a while, but everything is back to normal now. No permanent harm done.’

‘So we can make love?’

She cocked an eyebrow, the relief of unburdening washing over her and leaving her giddy. ‘We’d better. I crossed an ocean to be with you, Thomas.’

It had been a month, but his lips remembered all the secret places that made her gasp; his hands hadn’t forgotten where to hold and stroke and tickle; his eyes rested on the unforgettable glory of her, the beauty of the woman he loved with all his heart, soul and body. Knowing now what she had endured without him, all that sadness and pain, he wanted to hold her to him and keep her safe in his arms forever, but he knew that was not possible. For now, for the coming hours, they had each other and that would be enough to tide him over until they were alone in that cabana he had booked by the ocean. He lifted Rosie into his arms and kissing her mouth again, carried her to the bedroom, laying her down reverently on the bed, as if she were made of glass. Suddenly it occurred to him that he had, once again, hurt her, however unwittingly, and that knowledge was burning him from inside.

‘I’m so sorry, sorry, sorry, my darling.’ He was crying again, his voice breaking, his face downcast and Rosie knew why. She took his head in her hands and pulled gently until he lifted his chin and their eyes locked.

‘This wasn’t your fault, Tom. It just happened. One in eight pregnancies, they say, especially first ones. I am OK. And I love you. But I need to tell you one more thing, before we, _er_ , you know, _start_.’

‘What?’ Anxiety bloomed in his chest again.

‘I am not using anything now. No contraception. So, of you don’t want me, us, to… I have some condoms.’

‘So, you mean you want to try, I mean actually _try_?’ His face was beautiful; sweet, innocent, glowing with hope, like a little boy’s.

‘Only if you do. I know we haven’t discussed any of this, so feel free to say what you think. I know I am being presumptuous. You might not want to, or at least not with _me,_ but… It’s just that at my age, I can’t afford to hang about, and I can’t think of a man who deserves to be a father more than you and I know I’m babbling…’ She smiled helplessly at him, praying for him to answer.

‘You _are_ babbling, which is why you should stop talking and let me make love to you, Rosie. You’re the one I want to have my babies with, so why wait? I think ten years is long enough.’

He began to finish undressing her then, pausing at every turn and unfastening to kiss the revealed flesh, breathing her in, gently caressing as he went. When he reached the soft swell of her belly he lingered, whispering something so softly she couldn’t make it out, then he continued and she forgot to ask him what he had said. Rosie soon lost control and surrendered herself to the pleasure he was giving, her fingers tangled in his soft curls as his mouth and fingers drove her wild.

Afterwards as they lay under the covers, enjoying the feel of one another’s skin, the warm glow of their orgasms still suffusing their bodies, Rosie felt a tension return to Tom.

‘Did it hurt? Was it really awful?’ He was kissing her hair, nuzzling gently, the scent of orange blossom filling his head.

‘Yes, for a while. It was worse because I didn’t understand what was happening at first.’ He hugged her more tightly, the pain in his chest threatening to burst it. ‘And it was awful, yes. Because it was only when I knew what I had lost that I knew how much I wanted it; wanted him or her.’ Tears fell as she remembered the grief and it sprang up, fresh as that day. Tom reached for her and smoothed his palm against her cheek. ‘It felt so… I don’t know, _unfair_. After Arthur, I mean.’

‘It will happen for us, I know it. We did it before and we weren’t even trying, so imagine what will happen now we are! Now,’ he said, his as his hand slid stealthily over her towards her breast, ‘how about we try some more?’

And deep inside Rosie, one special cell waited patiently, as requested, just a little longer, for its moment in the sun.


	21. I Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> … Love you forever and forever  
> Love you with all my heart  
> Love you whenever we’re together  
> Love you when we’re apart  
> And when at last I find you  
> Your song will fill the air  
> Sing it loud so I can hear you…

And so it was that the final act in the total reversal of Rosie’s life, the transformation from her lonely existence adrift in unrequited love to her and Tom’s commitment to one another came to be. Not with a bang, not with some grand romantic gesture, not with barrel-loads of flowers, a church or a register office and a big party; rather with a simple, quiet, intensely intimate agreement that they should make a family, and thereby pledge themselves, one to the other, for the rest of their lives.

But Nature had other ideas, at least at first.

On her second morning in Canada, Rosie discovered she had a long-lost visitor. Tom was out on his run, so she was able to make her undignified hunched-up, grab-a-wodge-of-tissues-from-the-bedside-box scramble to the bathroom unobserved. She had been expecting this, so had brought supplies, but she was disappointed that it arrived so soon. It was going to take the shine off her visit to the set and her long-awaited chance to meet everyone, but such is life. And she was really rather pleased, as it showed that her body was functioning normally.

Later in the morning, she found herself lying down in Jessica Chastain’s trailer, nursing an oatmeal warming cushion on her tense abdomen. Jess breezed in wearing her full Victorian garb and flopped down at the end of the couch.

‘Sheesh! That was horrible. I thought your man was never gonna let us stop! I lost count of the takes! He’s such a perfectionist.’

Rosie smiled weakly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh no, don’t you start!’ She grinned and took a swig from a water bottle. ‘Feeling any better hon?’

‘Much, thanks. I’d forgotten how rotten this can be.’

‘Been a while?’

‘Yes, getting on for twenty years. I’ve been on a progesterone-only pill, you see.’

‘Oh I get it.’ Jessica nodded sagely, and then something seemed to occur to her. ‘And now you’ve stopped…? I knew It!’ The actress leapt to her feet and began clapping her hands and dancing on the spot, the silk of her bustle swishing in the cramped space. ‘Tom loves you so much, honey, so very much. He has talked of little else this whole time. You’re gonna have a family? Oh my! He’d be a great daddy; have you seen him with kids? Oh I’m so happy for you!’ Jessica was speaking rapidly, barely pausing for breath. Finally she relented, but Rosie was unsure what to say. She had only met this woman that morning and it seemed way too soon for such confidences. ‘Hey, it’s OK, honey. I won’t tell anyone.’ The young woman shook her head as sat and smiled kindly at Rosie from her chair. ‘You know, he’s a different man now you’re here,’ she continued. ‘Not checking his phone all the time; really chilled. He missed you so much.’

‘I missed him too. He wanted me to come with him, I know. But my friend was dying, and I have a business to run in London. It’s been difficult.’

‘Yeah, he told me about your store. I looked at the website. I might order something; you do ship overseas?’

Rosie blushed. Tom had been promoting the shop! ‘Yes, of course. What sort of thing are you interested in?’

‘Oh, I don’t know; something old and beautiful. I’ll know it when I see it.’

Tom had been mildly put-out by Rosie’s condition, but that quickly dissipated when she pointed out that it was a necessary evil. And at least it had come now, and not during their sojourn by the Pacific, when it would have been a lot less welcome.

‘The doc told me I needed to have at least one normal period before we started trying, actually. I was being greedy and impatient.’ She looked at his beautiful face, watched the emotions chasing each other across it: disappointment, hope, excitement.

‘We know what we will be doing on our holiday, anyway.’ He winked unsubtly.

‘Like we wouldn’t have been whatever happened.’

‘Well…’

_Crimson Peak_ was Rosie’s first experience of seeing how a movie was made at first hand. She had been to a few theatre rehearsals before, but this was completely new to her. It was fascinating to see the contrast between the perfection of the sets and the spaghetti of cables and muddle of equipment, props and people just out of shot. And the painstaking precision of it all! Seeing how hard Tom and his colleagues worked - how mentally and physically draining it was - brought home to her what those extra transatlantic trips must have cost him.

The last few scenes were being filmed, and there was an end-of-term atmosphere about the place. Tom was giddy with excitement; the combination of Rosie’s presence, her news, their joint decision and the up-coming break was making him wildly happy. Her period coming had put the mockers on some of his plans for the week, but there was still the wrap party to look forward to and then they would be whisked off to their own private paradise.

The perfect place to make a baby.

‘So, love, you OK?’

Jimmy looked tired but cheerful. Rosie missed him, even after only four days. They had been so close for so long; it was almost like a marriage, or one of those brother-sister households. They had always had their own lives, but they rubbed along with each other so well that she missed his company, even when she was with Tom. And of course he had been there for her a lot recently.

‘I’m fine. Is that a new hair colour?’

‘It is. ‘Marvel Red’, I call it. D’ya like it?’

‘Muchly. What does Hugh say?’

‘Oh, that old square?’ He snorted. The two of them had been arguing about Jimmy’s frequent hair colouring experiments for years. ‘He’s given up. Actually complimented me on it last night.’

‘Wow. You know he asked me about managing the shop…?’

‘He said something. He’s been itching to get away from teaching for a while now. Helen getting that Principal post is the last straw, I think.’ Jimmy tried to see Rosie’s face more clearly. ‘So… what do you think about it?’

His friend sighed and even from an ocean away, he could see the turmoil in her. ‘It makes sense, Jim, I know. Hugh’s the ideal person, and I know I can trust him totally. But…’ She pulled a face, and Jimmy tried to be patient, despite every cell in his body wanting to scream ’DO IT!’ Rosie swallowed and continued. ‘Every time I think about it I start to get emotional. I’ve been there for so long. I’m not sure I can just hand it over and walk away. Even if it’s Hugh.’

‘What does Tom say?’

‘We haven’t actually discussed the shop specifically. I mean, he knows what it means to me. By the way, we’ve decided to try again, properly this time.’

Jimmy’s heart was in his mouth. ‘For a baby?!!’ His normally deep bass-baritone voice was a squeak.

Rosie blushed, unable to keep the cheesy grin off her face. ‘Yes. Not this week, though.’

‘So that’s it then. You’ll _have_ to get a manager. You guys are going to be way too busy soon.’

‘I suppose…’ Rosie recognised the truth of what he was saying, but the full implications were still sinking in. If she and Tom were going to be parents, _and that was a very big ‘if’_ , she’d be moving in with him as well as having to hand over the business, at least in part. She had closed up the shop for the three weeks of this trip, but a more permanent solution would be needed in the future. She resolved to have a proper talk to Tom about it that evening.

‘I think it makes perfect sense, my love. And Hugh is ideal.’

They were finishing their desserts at the apartment; Rosie wasn’t feeling up to venturing further afield.

‘I’d still want to keep some control, of course.’ It felt easier to contemplate handing over the reins tonight; she had spent the afternoon turning it over in her mind. The nagging feeling that she was betraying Arthur was getting weaker, especially when she remembered the end of his letter to her.

**_‘So please, if you have to, hire someone to run the shop. If that doesn’t work, sell… […] Now, go, be with your man.’_ **

‘Naturally.’ Tom reached for her hand across the table, leaned forward and lifted it to his lips. ‘I want you to have your own life, to do your own thing, of course I do. I think you should keep singing with the band too, if you want to that is.’

‘Oh fuck! I hadn’t even thought about the band! Well, I suppose I can do that. As long as we don’t get too many gawkers, like at the last couple of gigs.’ She shuddered at the memory of their last two performances, which had been somewhat marred by the giggling and staring of people who were – apparently - only there to get a close look at her. On the plus side, Hugh had received emails from three recording companies keen to sign them. ‘You know, Kate carried on through her pregnancies and came back as soon after as she could. She said it was an escape!’

******

‘I really don’t think you should have any more to drink, Tom. We have a long flight in the morning.’ He was doing it again: over-indulging at a wrap party. He had worked so hard, all of them had that Rosie didn’t really mind (even though she was being very modest in her intake, as Doctor Robertson had told her to) but she wouldn’t want to undertake a twelve-hour flight with a hangover.

It had been tremendous fun. The long shoot meant that some close friendships had developed between cast and crew alike, and the relief of completion was tempered by the sadness of parting. Rosie felt a little out of things, despite Tom’s efforts to include her. She didn’t know the others as well as he did, and her near-abstention set her apart as well. She was relieved when they set off for the apartment; they had a very long way to go tomorrow.

‘Have you decided what to do about Arthur’s flat?’ She was surprised when Tom spoke in bed; she thought he was nearly asleep.

‘Not entirely. I suppose it depends on what we do. I mean, if I were to move in with you…’

‘As soon as we get back, please… if you want to, that is.’

His fingers were caressing her arm and back softly as she lay against his firm chest.

‘I don’t want to leave Jimbo in the lurch, of course, but I think he wants to find a place with Larry.’ She paused. She had been thinking about all this for weeks, but suddenly the most important part of the jigsaw was in place, and thus everything else was beginning to settle in her mind. ‘I think I will offer them first dibs on the lease.’

‘That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? A tenant you can trust?’

‘Yes, well, I’ll talk to him when I get back. They might not want it.’

‘I bet they do. Now, we’d better get some sleep. It’s a long way to paradise from here.’

Almost two weeks later, Rosie lay on the bed in their cabana watching Tom sleep, listening to the waves whispering as they stroked the beach outside the window. He was stretched out on his back, one arm over his head, snoring softly. The warm sun had turned his formerly winter-pale skin a soft honey colour, and his cheeks had regained the healthy ruddy hue she had not seen in a long time. There were golden highlights in his hair. Some of the warrior-bulk he had developed to play Caius Martius was gone, but he was still muscled and the moonlight showed it to perfection.  She allowed her eyes to drift down further, to where his long, fat cock rested on his thigh, then down again, tracing the length of his powerful long legs.

She felt tears rising; his beauty moved her more than any work of art ever had. It had been that way when they were ‘just’ friends, when all she could do was admire him from a discreet distance. Now she could revel in him, in everything about him that she loved. He was hers; she was his. He moaned quietly in his sleep and Rosie saw that beautiful member twitch; she needed no second bidding. Sliding carefully down the bed she blew gently on the tip, then kissed it.

‘Hello.’ His voice was husky, full of sleep. She just smiled and took more of his rapidly hardening length into her mouth.

He was instantly more awake. ‘Oh no you don’t; none of that! If my GCSE Biology doesn’t fail me, this is the perfect time. Get up here.’

His strong arms pulled her to him, their mouths meeting as he gently turned her onto her back. His kisses roamed across her, down her neck, lingering on her breasts, his hands going where his lips could not, until she was gasping for his touch in the one place he had avoided so far.

‘Now, my darling, it is important that you have as many orgasms as possible. I’ve been reading, and…’

‘You don’t say,’ she responded breathlessly as he slipped his long fingers between her slippery folds, and she tried not to buck her hips against them. ‘And what exactly does your reading tell you?’

‘That conception is more likely if the woman orgasms. Why else have a female orgasm?’

‘Makes sense. OK, if you insist.’ She started to giggle and so did he, and soon they were both helpless with laughter, rolling on the bed and crying. Then their eyes met and everything became deadly serious once more. She kissed him, pulling him between her legs and guiding him inside her.

‘You know,’ he said as his hips began to roll, each word punctuated by a thrust. ‘It’s. Very. Good. Fun. This. Baby. Business… Most. Pleasant.

Rosie didn’t answer, just bit his shoulder lightly and grabbed his arse hard. They had been making love several times a day but she had yet to tire of it. She had feared that she would become sore, but so far the only problem had been aching muscles unaccustomed to this level of use. Her other worry had been that sex would lose its shine if they were trying to get pregnant, but that hadn’t happened either. Tom was an endlessly inventive lover, and he seemed to find her infinitely attractive. He said one day as they lay on the beach outside, hidden from any possible paparazzi by rush screens and umbrellas, that he couldn’t understand how he hadn’t fallen in love with her sooner. Rosie had no answer for that. She had assumed that if it was ever going to happen the chance had passed long ago; only one small corner of her heart had hung onto the faint dream long after her rational mind had given up.

She felt that familiar tightness building in her pelvis and as Tom’s thrusts became more erratic and less controlled, she came undone around him. She clung to him as he continued to pound into her, riding out her orgasm, eventually stilling as his body emptied into hers; his hot breath on her neck, their sweat mingling where they touched.

And so it began: the next part of their story.

_Inside Rosie, something small but crucial had burst earlier that evening and what had emerged from the little cyst was drifting idly down her fallopian tube, carrying the accumulated experience of a thousand generations or more. School cooks and gardeners and teachers and policemen, French polishers and council roadmen, Irish and Germans and Angles and Saxons, farmers and navvies and wheelwrights and miners, all combining to provide a unique genetic code._

_And now, on their way to meet it, were Tom’s contributions, each carrying his own family history in its microscopic head. Scientist and impresario, engineer and crofter, artist and craftsman, Scot and Norman and Celt and Jute, hedger and carpenter and drover and shepherd. They swam, following their programming, searching, climbing, hunting out that one destination to fulfil their only purpose._

_At some time in the night, as Tom and Rosie slept in each other’s arms, one sperm, the strongest, the luckiest, the best – perhaps - reached the egg and in an echo of their lovemaking, penetrated its outer skin, beginning the commonplace magic that is a new human life. Twenty-four hours later what was already more than the sum of its parts divided in two, and then, as Rosie packed her bags at noon the next day, ready to leave for home, it divided again, all the time drifting further down the tube towards the place it would settle and grow._

_As Rosie roused herself at Tom’s urging to get off the plane at Heathrow, the ball of cells which now looked like a minute berry was on the point of entering her womb. She went to reopen the shop two days later, unaware that the blastocyst (so-called because there was now a cavity inside the ball of cells) was about to land on the lining of her uterus. It put down its roots and settled, becoming both the embryo and his placenta. By the time she wondered if her period shouldn’t have started already, the tiny thing that would one day be James Arthur Hiddleston was already beginning to fold over on itself, creating what would become his brain and spinal cord._

_Long before Rosie dared to buy a pregnancy test to confirm her fledgling hopes, his tiny heart had begun to beat, a fluttering movement that would not stop until the day he died._


	22. Make You Feel My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storms are raging on the rolling sea  
> And on the highway of regret  
> The winds of change are blowing, wild and free  
> You ain’t seen nothing like me yet  
> I could make you happy, make your dreams come true  
> Nothing that I wouldn’t do  
> Go to the ends of the earth for you  
> To make you feel my love

Was this really it? The end of this wonderful affair? Rosie looked around her, at the faded wallpaper and the shabby flat-pack furniture held together with screws and superglue; she was never going to spend another night here after this one. Over twenty years of history were coming to an end. A crash and loud swearing from the kitchen behind her snapped her out of her reverie. Jimmy was having his usual battle with inanimate objects.

‘Fucking fried rice is always red hot.’ He stood in the doorway sucking on his scorched fingers. ‘D’ya want more Coke? Sure about the beer?’

She smiled, ‘Yes, I’ll have some more. And I told you, I’m not drinking. Just in case.’

‘Fair enough. But you’d better call him Jimmy…’

They ate their takeaway in front of _Topsy-Turvey,_ raucously singing along with the numbers and laughing at themselves. Neither of them wanted to admit that this was probably the end of evenings like this. After the movie was over and the dinner cleared away, Rosie lay with her head in Jimmy’s lap and he stroked her hair.

‘I’m going to miss you, sis. Who’s going to listen when I whinge? Larry just rolls his eyes or tells me to shut up.’

‘You’ll live. And I never listened either. Hey!’ She feigned protest as he swatted ineffectually at her. ‘Do you think he’s the one?’

‘I do.’ Jimmy sighed. ‘I nearly lost him before Christmas. It was a real test, but he understood what you mean to me. If he hadn’t then it never would have worked. And now look at us! A couple of old marrieds!’

‘As good as, I suppose.’ She turned to look up at him. ‘I’m going to miss you too, Jimbo. But we’ll still see each other.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘You’ll be over to give me facials regularly, right?’

Rosie slept that night on top of what had been her bed in Jimmy’s sleeping bag. All her belongings were at Tom’s – _their_ – house now. Jimmy was leaving in the morning for the flat over the shop, with Larry joining him in a few days. When she woke she sat up and took a last look at her old room. She thought about the hours she had spent sobbing in there, breaking her heart over Tom, never really believing that one day he would make love to her in that very bed. The place seemed strange to her already, stripped of her things, bare-boned and characterless. Only the view from the window was unchanged, if uninspiring: the shabby wall of the next house.

She helped Jimmy to clear the last of the kitchen stuff and loaded her new car with the assortment of carrier-bags and boxes. The small Citroën didn’t have much room, but Jimmy had already moved most of his clothes and books, so there was space enough for this final batch.

‘I like this car,’ Jimmy said approvingly as he shut the hatch on his jumble of belongings. ‘It’s stylish. Tom chose it, did he?’

‘Yes. I had no idea until we got back and there were the keys on his hall table. The car was in his garage with a giant ribbon on it. He didn’t want me catching the bus to the shop, he said.’

‘Romantic fool. I think you should keep him; he’s clearly loaded.’

Jimmy dodged her swiping hand and ran around to get into the passenger seat. They both took a final look at the old place. They had shared it for so long that Rosie had expected to feel much sadder, but they were both moving to start new lives and that was a cause for joy, not melancholy. A quick look at the front door and they set off down Hazelville Road for the last time. A few minutes later they drew up in the yard behind Broadway Rare Books and began to ferry Jimmy’s stuff up the narrow stairs.  After she had finished helping him, Rosie popped into the shop to say hello to Hugh. He was peering at the computer screen but seemed relaxed and greeted her warmly. He had been able to take up her offer immediately thanks to a round of redundancies at his University, and was more or less ready now to take over unaided. She noted that he had moved a few things on the desk and made the odd change in the shop already. It stung a little, but she was determined to be fair and grown-up about it. It was going to be his responsibility now, and she had to let him get on with it. And anyway, she had other things on her mind, the first of which was a trip to the pharmacy on the way home. She had something she wanted to do the next morning.

The next day dawned as grey as the rest of the month, but the weather was not high on her list of priorities. It felt too uncomfortable sitting on the closed toilet seat, and anyway she couldn’t settle, so she went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. The water boiled unheeded; the switch went off automatically but she continued to stare out of the window at the clouds scudding across the sky above the trees.

She was afraid to know.

It was so soon, too soon, maybe; but even the thought of another disappointment made her heart sink. Surely something good, some _life_ was overdue? Was she being greedy? Wasn’t having Tom enough? She remembered about the tea, re-boiled the water and poured it. Her phone buzzed with the morning greeting from across the Irish Sea; she responded happily, not wanting to distract him. She could tell him the outcome later when they spoke. She sipped her drink and continued to dither.

Eventually she couldn’t put it off any longer. Slowly, reluctantly she climbed the stairs to where the little plastic thingy was waiting to be examined. Her legs felt as if they were lead; the muscles didn’t want to work. The silliest thing, the truly irrational thing was that she was pretty damn sure she knew what it would say. She had felt it in her heart: _something_ was happening. Call it a woman’s intuition, a mother’s instinct; she felt it very strongly. But at the same time, she was old enough and wise enough to recognise that it might simply be wishful thinking. She paused at the door, took a deep breath, walked over to the sink and peered at the read-out.

Tom was later home than he intended that night, because there were quite a few people waiting to see him after he finished filming for the day. There was a lovely atmosphere: friendly, relaxed, supportive. The fans - all ages, many local, a sprinkling from further afield - had been patient, taking their turns politely for autographs or pictures; he had been handing out hugs freely. It nourished him, pepped him up after a hard day and helped with the missing of Rosie. It didn’t seem to make any difference knowing she wasn’t as far away, and that she would be flying over very soon; he missed her so much it hurt. The three weeks together had made him greedy for more; he had cut short his visit to his mother in Suffolk because he needed to be near her. He was jealous of Hugh, of Jimmy, of the band; of everyone who had her when he didn’t. He was beyond irrational about it, and desperate to see her, which was why he called her to FaceTime as soon as he got back to the house. He was changing his clothes while it rang.

Her screen opened to show his head covered by a t-shirt. ‘Tom?’

He pulled it down, smile beaming. ‘My love. How I needed to see that beautiful face!’

‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes. Why?’ He tried to suppress the excitement that began to build immediately, making his stomach flutter and his hands and feet tingle.

‘I have some news. I was going to wait until I saw you, but… I can’t keep it to myself, I’m sorry.’ She paused, almost unable to say more. His face was so happy, so sweetly hopeful that she had never loved him more than at that moment. ‘I did a test.’

‘ _And?_ ’

She nodded, and tears rolled down her face. She had expected Tom to shout or cheer or something, but he was uncharacteristically quiet. ‘Are you OK, Tom?’

‘Yes, of course. I just don’t want to get _too_ excited. Not yet.’ The tears in eyes said something different.

‘You’re right, of course. And we shouldn’t say anything to anyone, not for a while. Let’s get past the next few weeks. Just in case.’ The painful memory of what happened in May stung afresh, and she instinctively pressed a protective hand over her belly.

Inside, Tom was singing. He wanted to dance, but he knew how much pain and grief Rosie had been through, first with Arthur, then with the miscarriage. Wild celebrations could wait until she felt safe. But he went to bed that night with his head full of names and plans and nursery colours.

After she closed the call, Rosie picked up the letter which had been waiting for her when she returned to the UK over three weeks before. The handwriting was familiar, which had made it more puzzling. Her mother never wrote, just phoned a few times a year. When she read the contents she saw why; it was good news, for once, and she had tried to call while Rosie was away. She was getting remarried at last. Rosie had telephoned and arranged to visit them in a couple of weeks, when Tom would have three days in succession free. _Might as well get all the introductions over in one fell swoop._

It had been unsettling but oddly fitting, hearing from her mother at just that moment. Rosie had been thinking about her quite a bit since the miscarriage. She supposed that such events make you need your mum, but theirs was not that kind of relationship. Nevertheless, she did want to tell her what was happening. She was, after all, still her _mother_. Rosie wondered if she would tell her about the new baby. Perhaps. If it seemed right.

That summer was cool, wet and not especially pleasant, but for Rosie such considerations were secondary. While the future James Arthur Hiddleston grew and developed steadily inside her, his mother’s life was a blur of work, singing and travel. Once Hugh was settled in the job she spent every other weekend with Tom in Northern Ireland, except when he came over and they went up to Essex to see her mum and meet the fiancé. Don seemed like a good bloke, and Mary was obviously happy which was all that Rosie cared about. She had seen her mother at her lowest ebb, so she knew this was a good omen; the visit was a success and left all four of them feeling that things were on the up. There seemed to be a rapprochement between the women, but Rosie decided not mention her pregnancy for the time being.

Towards the end of filming Jimmy and Larry joined her on a visit to the _High-Rise_ set as Tom’s guests: Jimmy had a bit of a crush on Luke Evans, so Tom arranged for the five of them to have dinner together. As he drove their visitors back to their hotel, he and Rosie laughed as her oldest friend went on and on about how lovely Luke was; she had wanted to thank him properly for his support earlier in the year, and for so long before that, and so did Tom. They delighted in his pleasure. Rosie stayed on at the rented house with Tom and was present when he did the Ice Bucket Challenge video for charity; she did not join in, because he would not allow it. She noted that his protective qualities were dialled up fully; he wanted to wrap her in cotton-wool and she allowed it – for now. She understood why. So she just watched as his glorious body was revealed under the wet cotton of his white t-shirt.  She had suggested that he wore that, and when she saw the effect she knew it was the right choice.

After his assistant had left them alone, Rosie grinned at Tom across the kitchen while he sipped his tea. He was wearing his bathrobe and she sauntered over to him, sliding her hand under the terry-towelling.

‘What are you up to, woman?’

‘Oh, I think you know.’ She smiled wickedly at him and his cock sprang to attention almost instantly. Her presence tended to make him horny, but when she spoke to him in THAT voice he was doomed. He lifted her gently onto the worktop.

‘Is this OK? Are you comfortable?’ He had been driving her to distraction with his fussing; they had been making love but he had been so careful it was becoming annoying.

‘Oh shut up and fuck me, Hiddleston. Christ! What’s a woman got to do to get some cock around here?’

His crashed his lips onto hers and while he wasn’t exactly rough, he took his cue from her and wasn’t overly polite either. Rosie’s shorts and knickers were on the floor in seconds and his mouth was on her immediately. She reached up and held onto the cupboard handles above her as he sucked and licked her to a crashing orgasm. She hadn’t realised how turned on seeing him in that wet t-shirt had made her; he straightened up and kissed her on the mouth again, letting her taste herself.

‘Wow, that was fucking hot! Enjoyed seeing me doused, did you?’

‘You know it. You looked like sex on legs; Tumblr is going to melt down. Now, as I believe I asked before, shut up and fuck me, Hiddleston.’

She reached down and undid the belt of his robe as he drew her to the edge of the worktop. The height was perfect and he slid in smooth and steady, stopping only when his balls were against her.

‘Well that’ll never get old,’ she sighed, relishing the deep contact. His lips were on her neck; her hands were in his hair. They were still for a long time, just feeling one another and being. Tom knew it wasn’t rational, but he was afraid he would harm the baby. His greatest fear, the one that woke him in a cold sweat at least once a week, usually more often, was that he would hurt Rosie again. He would do _anything_ , go without anything to avoid that. Rosie felt the tension in his body and suspected that was the problem; she took charge again. She growled softly but firmly into his ear:

‘This is wonderful, and you know I LOVE your cock, but you really do need to move, Thomas. Because if you don’t I’m going to have to tie you to the bed and do all the work myself.’

He chuckled and pushed his worries aside. If he knew one thing about Rosie, it was that she was usually right, about _everything_. He grasped her thighs firmly and listened to his body instead of his mind. Soon his hips were pistoning and Rosie was screaming his name. It seemed pregnancy was good for her sex-drive, and he really shouldn’t complain.

‘Oh, Rosie. I’m gonna… Yesss!’

His legs shook but he managed to keep upright and lifted her carefully down onto her equally wobbly legs. They stood, foreheads touching, panting in the silence of the large house.

‘God, I love you, woman.’

Rosie fixed him with a gimlet eye.

‘Just as well, matey. You’ve got me up the duff… Oh that reminds me, I meant to ask you.’

‘Ask me?’ He was still breathless from their passionate embraces.’ Ask me what?’

‘What was it you whispered into my tummy that night in Toronto?

‘Ah.’ He smiled and brought his hand up to lift her chin. ‘I asked the next egg to wait. Said I was sending something. Told it to get ready.’

‘Clever boy. It must have been listening.’

Tom enjoyed filming _High-Rise,_ but it would be completed soon and looming over them was his imminent departure for the US. He had to go to prepare for his portrayal of Hank Williams, and that meant studying the right way of speaking, singing and playing guitar; not to mention losing weight to look gaunt enough on screen to resemble the late country music star. He had arranged to work with the right people and get the right kind of support and experience, but it all had to happen across the Atlantic. There would be just three days together at home before he had to leave to stay with Rodney Crowell and his family. Another long sojourn overseas, thousands of miles from London.

But this time it would be different. This time he was taking home with him.

The night before they left, Rosie did her last gig with _The Thieving Magpies_ for the foreseeable future. She would be in the US for months, and after that she was likely to be too pregnant and then too occupied to perform until next summer. Fittingly, the show was in the back room of _The White Horse,_ just like the one which had set all these events in train the November before.

Once again, as _Sign Your Name_ started, she lost herself in the music, the voices of her companions thrumming through her. She gloried in the way they blended to make their unique sound. She was going to miss this. One thing she knew for sure was that this baby was going to love music; he heard it all the time.  She began to sing the words that had betrayed her deepest feelings and the pain that she had tried to hide to Tom that fateful night. But this time she sang them _to_ him, her eyes open and brimming with love.

   ** _Fortunately you have got someone who relies on you_**

**_We started out as friends_ **

**_But the thought of you just caves me in_ **

**_The symptoms are so deep, it is much too late to turn away_ **

**_We started out as friends…_ **

She didn’t have to hide her eyes, there was no need to withhold the tears; she reached out to him and he smiled his love back at her, his own tears flowing freely. He thought about how they were setting out on a new journey together, one he had dreamed of for so long without guessing who would be his companion.

   ** _Sign your name across my heart_**

**_I want you to be my baby…_ **

Rosie almost faltered on the word ‘baby’, and studiously avoided his eye, in case she giggled and let the cat out of the bag too early. The song moved on to the verse that used to cut her to the quick. She had never thought that she would be standing there one day, singing it to him, their son growing inside her:

   ** _All alone with you makes the butterflies in me arise_**

**_Slowly we make love_ **

**_And the earth rotates to our dictates_ **

**_Slowly we make love…_ **

Instead of a stab of pain, the words made her stomach do a flip. Tom too felt a surge of happiness; tomorrow would be the first proper day of their life together. She was going with him. No more lonely nights apart; no more painfully frustrating video calls. She would be there with him; he would be there with them.

The audience in _The Hind Quarters_ that night was invitation-only: old supporters, friends and family. Everyone knew it was to be Rosie’s swansong, at least until they returned from America, and the applause after every one of her solos was tumultuous. When _Only Love Can Hurt Like This_ finished, Rosie was a wreck and the clapping and stamping nearly brought the house down. As agreed ahead of time, Tom joined the band onstage at the end of the set and after a few ‘thank yous’ had been said, he cleared his throat and took a mike from Hugh.

‘As most of you know, I love this beautiful, talented, amazing woman very much, and I am happy to say that she has agreed to accompany me on my next adventure  - into the world of Country Music. _Yee-haw!_ ’ Polite laughter and a ripple of applause. ‘But there is another adventure we are setting out on together,‘ he continued, and Rosie began to blush. She had agreed to this, but suddenly felt very self-conscious. ‘We are going to be parents in March.’ This time the applause was deafening. The band all knew the news, but most of the other people there did not. Julia and Lauren were near the front of the stage and both reached up to take one of Rosie’s hands, their eyes glistening.

Rosie stepped forward and waited until the cries of congratulation died down again. She thanked everyone for coming and expressed her love for the band. She looked at Tom, his face shining in the modest lighting of a pub venue. He looked so like the young man she had fallen in love with all those years ago: the 1000-watt smile, the bright eyes, the beautiful cheekbones. But what moved her most was the way he was looking at her right at that moment: with total, undisguised love. Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She was a modern woman; this was 2014. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it.

The party broke up quickly after that and soon only Hugh and Helen, Jimmy, Larry, Tom and Rosie remained. They walked out to their cars together and Rosie embraced the others before they set off home. Alone in the pub car park, Rosie knew this was the time and the place. The agony she had felt that night getting on for a year earlier was the catalyst for everything; it had to be here. Before he could open the passenger door for her she took his hand.

‘I know this is a bit old-fashioned, and probably goes against all my feminist principles, but I’m going to say it anyway.’ She suddenly felt scared. _What if he says no?_

_‘_ Will you marry me, Thomas?’

‘Rosie Rhodes, I’d thought you’d never ask.’

 

**_We are a lullaby_ **

**_An everlasting song_ **

**_Taken as prisoners_ **

**_To a place where we belong_ **

****

**_If the tune stops_ **

**_I will not wake, oh no_ **

**_Without us I’m no one_ **

**_My soul swells and aches_ **

****

**_So on the day_ **

**_When the music dies_ **

**_So will our love_ **

**_There’ll be some pain_ **

**_But I keep it in my locket_ **

****

**_If you’ll lead the band,_ **

**_then I will have to follow_ **

**_There’s no escape for me_ **

****

**_(Chorus:)_ **

**_So play on!_ **

**_Keep me dancing in the air_ **

**_No one else they can compare_ **

**_To the harmony of our sweet rapture_ **

**_You have a supernatural flair_ **

**_Push me further than I dare_ **

**_Play on, play on, play on_ **

**_Play on for me_ **

****

**_So if this melody_ **

**_Should stop or fade away_ **

**_The oceans will drain out_ **

**_and the stars disintegrate_ **

****

**_It’s like voodoo_ **

**_I’ve lost all my control_ **

**_I look into you_ **

**_You make me rock n roll_ **

****

**_So on the day_ **

**_When the music dies_ **

**_So will our love_ **

**_There’ll be some pain_ **

**_But I keep it in my locket_ **

****

**_If you’ll lead the band,_ **

**_then I will have to follow_ **

**_There’s no escape for me_ **

**_So play on!_ **

**_Keep me dancing in the air_ **

**_No one else they can compare_ **

**_To the harmony of our sweet rapture_ **

**_You have a supernatural flair_ **

**_Push me further than I dare_ **

**_Play on, play on, play on_ **

**_Play on for me_ **


End file.
